


Colors of Fódlan: Convergence

by Linderosse



Series: Colors of Fódlan [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Bernadetta is Asexual, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I love Fire Emblem game mechanics so I will work them into the plot and it will be great, M/M, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Soulmates- Color AU, Spoilers only for the first half of the game (White Clouds), The Black Eagles students are wonderful and I love them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:14:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22261672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linderosse/pseuds/Linderosse
Summary: Edelgard and Byleth navigate mutual suspicionHubert and Ferdinand clash over idealsPetra and Dorothea look past bordersLinhardt and Caspar redefine their friendshipBernadetta begins to trustA Soulmate Color AU starring F!Byleth and the students of the Black Eagles house.Also a canon-compliant rewrite of White Clouds with a healthy dose of both angst and strategic accuracy.The main arc of the Colors of Fódlan series.[Update 5/29] Chapter 10: Compassion [Bernadetta]
Relationships: Background Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro, Background Catherine/Shamir Nevrand, Background Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia, Background Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Background Jeralt Reus Eisner/Sitri Eisner | Byleth's Mother, Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Series: Colors of Fódlan [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536050
Comments: 122
Kudos: 338





	1. Prologue [Jeralt]

This is Part Three of the [Colors of Fódlan](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1536050) series. If you’d like to start from the beginning, here’s [Part One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21085841). Really though, the other parts are prequels. This is the main storyline. You do not need to read the other parts to understand this one.

Enjoy!

* * *

It is far too late when you arrive. You know this well, for most of the color has bled from your vision already. You don’t have the time to remove your armor or riding gear— you have _so little time_. 

“Sitri!”

You stride in through the open door and fall to your knees at her bedside. Desperation tears at your tenuous hope as you take in her fragile form— as likely as not to shatter at the lightest touch. She’s holding something in her arms, a small bundle. You can’t bring yourself to look down at that unmoving bundle, because what if...

So you focus on her— her beloved face, wracked with pain and yet still listless.

“Sitri!” you call again, frantic, when she doesn’t respond. Has she already—!? “Sitri, love, can you hear me?”

“...Jeralt?” Her voice is weaker than you thought it would be. The sound of it robbed of its effusive cheer sends you reeling. You work to pull yourself together.

“Yes, Sitri, it’s me. I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry. I shouldn’t have left on that mission— but Rhea told me—“

Sitri starts coughing, and you fall silent, flinching at the frailty of the sound. There is a glass of water on the bedside table, and you raise it carefully to her lips. You can no longer tell by sight that her cheeks are flushed and feverish, because red was the first color you lost. Its disappearance from your vision yesterday acted as the first harbinger of your wife’s death, calling you back to her side. Your hand brushes her cheek. The heat there speaks to how little time you have left.

“It’s alright, dear,” she whispers. Her voice is a sigh on the wind. “You couldn’t have known…”

She trails off and stares blankly at the ceiling. You take her hand and call to her again, begging her to stay with you, because now, even the gaunt yellow tinge of the firelight has dulled to gray in your sight and you know this means she’s fading fast.

“Our child…” she breathes, and you drain all the last drops of courage in you just to look down at that silent, still bundle in Sitri's arms.

You let out a gasp, stunned, of mixed relief and wonder and surprise. The child’s eyes and hair are deep blue with just a tinge of the green that adorns your wife’s locks. Strangely, the child’s eyes are open, looking at you as if wondering who you are.

“She doesn’t cry. Or show any expression at all.” Sitri whispers, glancing down at the child.

Then Sitri smiles, warm and familiar. Her tired fingers brush lightly over the back of the infant’s head, and tears well in her eyes.

“And I love her,” Sitri whispers, full of feeling. “I love our daughter more than anything. I had to choose her over myself, Jeralt, forgive me.”

She’s wearing the saddest smile you’ve ever seen as she gazes down at the bundle in her arms. “I won’t be with you much longer, little one. I’m dying.”

“Don’t say that, Sitri, please.” Your voice is rough with emotion. Why is this happening? Why now, when everything was going so well, and both of you were happy? A question rises in you, doubt turned into a lingering hope, even though you’ve never really been one for faith.

“Can… Rhea? Can she do something to save you, Sitri? You have to tell me—”

You stop again because Sitri is shaking her head softly through the tears that have finally spilled over her eyes to drip down pale skin.

“—Oh, Jeralt. No. She’s done enough. _You’ve_ done enough… I love her and I love my daughter and I love _you,_ Jeralt Eisner…”

She stops breathing, and you stop breathing as well for a frantic minute as her whole body trembles, chest struggling to draw in air. You force yourself to loosen your death grip on the sheets and instead run a shaking hand comfortingly across Sitri's back, useless fragile words of assurance slipping from you to fall and shatter on the white blankets. She’s still crying silently, and your breath stops as you realize that your child's hair— which you _know_ should be blue— looks gray to you now. You turn your gaze back to Sitri and realize that only the color green is left. _Her_ color. It’s the only thing holding you together.

“Take her, Jeralt.” Sitri chokes out through her tears, lifting the bundle in her arms up towards you ever so slightly. “I want to see you holding her, before I...”

You unclasp the gauntlets and chestpiece of your armor and let them fall to the floor before reaching down to lift up your child. You keep your touch as light and gentle as possible. You shelter the infant in your arms, and then you look back at Sitri, and the sight of her loving smile, growing fainter by the second, is a splash of dwindling joy in the overwhelming sorrow that is encroaching upon your heart. 

Your vision has almost grayed out completely. That sorrow expands into an ocean of despair as you notice that Sitri's hair and her pale eyes hold just a light dusting of green now…

“Her name…” Sitri sighs. “Byleth. Byleth Eisner.”

Then the last shard of green is gone and Sitri falls still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 3/20: Finally played Cindered Shadows! I've updated this prologue with the new details. Still have to tweak the Bernadetta sections a little bit to match, but I'll get to that. I love it when canon gives me more information to work with :).


	2. Intent [Edelgard]

The sky darkens slowly as dusk falls: a bold, dark blue deepening into black and greying out as it diverges into parts of the spectrum that Edelgard cannot see. The pale green grass is submerged in evening mist, less vibrant than usual.

Edelgard takes all of this in with a glance as she ducks under the wild swing of a brigand’s axe, then parries another thrust with the hilt of her own axe. She disengages and sprints backwards.

“Edelgard! Over here!”

Dimitri seems to pay no heed to the blood trickling down his left arm as he takes up a protective stance in front of Edelgard. His lance glints silver-gray in the evening sunlight. 

“Run!” Dimitri shouts. It’s almost a command. “I’ll hold them off!”

This was all part of the plan, Edelgard reminds herself. She and Hubert have been over these plans so many times. If the other two house leaders were to die here, it would be a blessing. 

Why is she having second thoughts _now_? Is it because of Dimitri’s eyes, which are close enough to dark blue that he could be her soulmate? To find out, all she’d have to do is touch him. If she touches him, then gains the ability to see all the colors of the spectrum, that would mean it’s really him.

Of course, most people can only see one color before they touch their soulmate, while Edelgard has always been able to see two: dark blue and pale green. She has no idea why, and it doesn’t seem like anyone else has ever been able to see two distinct colors before they unlock the full spectrum. Hubert generally tells her that this is just another trait that marks Edelgard as special. Edelgard isn’t so sure. There has to be a reason, and Edelgard _will_ figure it out someday.

While she’s distracted by her thoughts, a brigand roars and sprints forward. He shoves Dimitri’s lance aside mid-thrust, axe aimed straight at Dimitri’s unprotected head. Edelgard registers a flash of panic for Dimitri— followed immediately by shame, for allowing herself to feel that panic at all. She stills herself; holds herself back. This is what the world needs. She _cannot_ allow herself to help him.

Yet just as the crude axe begins its forward swing, an arrow whistles past Edelgard’s ear and embeds itself in the brigand’s hand. It seems that when Claude ran away earlier, saying he’d cover them from behind, he _hadn’t_ been lying through his teeth.

The brigand roars, a grating sound of pain. Edelgard can see Dimitri shudder at the noise, but there is no time for distractions, and something in her overrides her control; compels her to move, _now_. Edelgard pivots around Dimitri and crashes her axe blade into the brigand’s injured hand. She hears a sickening crunch, and then a scream of pain as the brigand scrambles to retreat.

Edelgard hasn’t met her soulmate yet, so the color red doesn’t register in her vision— red‘s hue is far from the shades of dark blue and pale green that she can see. Even so, the sight of blood, thick and gray, oozing from the brigand’s mangled hand… it stirs memories she would rather not recall.

Another arrow thuds into a brigand’s shoulder. Edelgard steps back, and Dimitri knocks the brigand out with a poised thrust of his lance. 

With that, they’ve cleared out the bandits in the vicinity. 

Dimitri relaxes, but Edelgard knows there are more brigands headed towards their location. She‘s certain about that, actually. Not that she could tell the other two why she just so happens to know the enemy’s movements.

“Hey, Edelgard! Blondie!” Claude emerges from the patch of forest behind them. “This way. I think I’ve found someone who can help us, at least until we catch up with Alois and the new professor again.”

What? If they get help, that might ruin everything. Claude and Dimitri might both _survive._ She tries to ignore the fact that she might have inadvertently saved Dimitri’s life earlier. A moment of weakness. She won’t make that mistake again.

“Why in the world would I follow _you_?” Edelgard allows disdain to color her voice. “I suggest we head that way.” She points in a different direction, vaguely towards the rest of the bandits.

Yet Dimitri is squinting in the direction Claude pointed, a hand raised to shade his eyes from the last of the sun's rays.

“No,” the prince says. “Claude’s right. There’s a building over there with a mercenary insignia on it. It’s our best chance. Come on.”

He reaches out to Edelgard, like he’s about to take her hand to pull her with him, and Edelgard can’t help how she flinches away from him. He stops short when he sees that, emotions warring on his face. Then he gives up and simply strides towards the building. Claude hums and saunters after him.

A sigh escapes her at the thought of both Dimitri and Claude surviving this attack. So much for Edelgard’s well-thought-out plan. Oh well. At least she was able to accomplish her and Hubert’s main objective— to scare away their new Professor. Rhea will be forced to replace that cowardly fop now, and the only candidate left at the monastery is loyal to Edelgard. With Edelgard’s most loyal soldier as the professor of the Black Eagles, she’ll be free to enact the rest of her plans without fear of censure.

Edelgard tosses her hair behind her shoulder and follows the boys through the woods.

* * *

There are two mercenaries willing to help them. The older mercenary hangs back and allows the younger mercenary to take charge. The younger mercenary’s eyes are bright in Edelgard’s view— maybe even brighter than Dimitri’s eyes. Edelgard tries not to keep glancing back at those eyes and that vivid blue hair.

“Edelgard. Wait in the forest. Attack anyone who approaches, but don’t advance on your own.”

The orders are calm, sharp, and precise. The voice is devoid of emotion. Edelgard complies, then watches as Claude is directed to pick off brigands from the cover of the woods. Dimitri is told to head into another patch of forest, where he dispatches a brigand with ease. 

Edelgard isn’t surprised to see that the young mercenary herself is a skilled fighter, sword dancing about her in a whirl of sharp iron. The brigands’ crude jabs are no match for that controlled grace— the wrath of a brilliant blue storm on the battlefield.

“Edelgard. Take out their leader.”

Edelgard frowns. These are _her own forces._ Yet if they were defeated so easily, they are worthless to her. Besides, she can hardly drop the charade now. She draws in a deep breath, pulls back her axe, and smashes it into Kostas. He falls back with a scream.

Curses. She used too much force in that last attack: her axe just broke. At least the battle is now over—

Kostas lurches to his feet and sprints at her, full tilt, axe held high. Edelgard backs away as time seems to slow around her. No! She will _not_ let herself be helpless _._ Not again! Never again! She drops the broken axe and draws her dagger, but it is too late, far too late to parry the blow—

The young mercenary is suddenly _there_. That blue hair shines ethereally in the fading light as the mercenary pirouettes and strikes. Blood glistens as it falls to the wet grass. Faced with such fury, burdened with such wounds, Kostas has no choice but to retreat. The mercenary looks back at Edelgard, sword now sheathed in a sturdy leather scabbard, face still expressionless. 

Then suddenly, Edelgard’s eyesight shifts, like the world is coming into focus. 

All at once, the universe blossoms with color. Hues she’s never before imagined paint the world in vibrant swirls, each new shade fitting neatly into its place in her sight. She almost drops her dagger in awe.

Claude and Dimitri run up to her. This time, Dimitri doesn’t shy away— he takes her ungloved hand to pull her back, away from where Kostas just stood. 

“El— Edelgard! Are you alright!?”

Edelgard is barely paying attention. She smiles and nods to hide the fact that her mind is whirling. Realms of light still spiral into vivid shades before her. Everything looks _different_. It’s like a dream. 

She knows what this is. When soulmates touch for the first time, they gain the ability to see all colors. This must be her moment. She’s gained her colors.

Which means Edelgard has found her soulmate.

But… who is it? 

* * *

“You’ve _gained your colors_!?”

Edelgard almost laughs at the way Hubert’s eyebrows shoot upwards. His stark amazement is amusing— she doesn’t think she’s seen him this shocked since she the day she returned to Enbarr seven years ago. His expression almost makes all of this confusion worth it. Almost.

“Yes, but Hubert… you’re supposed to _touch_ your soulmate before you start to see colors. Dimitri only touched me _after_ the transformation began. If it wasn’t Dimitri...”

“You say the mercenary never touched you at all?”

Edelgard nods. “But there was no one else around. It has to be one of those two.”

She’s sitting with her legs crossed on Hubert’s bed in the dorms. Hubert is at his desk. He’s got his writing paraphernalia spread out in front of him. Clearly, he’d been working on something before she interrupted him.

Hubert spins a pen in his hand. “Have you considered that it might be a trick?”

Edelgard frowns. “No. Is that possible?”

“The modifications to your vision could be the result of some spell. Or a side effect of your second crest. Or this could be related to the fact that you can see two colors, whereas most can only see one. Most importantly, it _is_ possible that this is a plot by your enemies to throw you off balance. Please keep that in mind, Lady Edelgard.”

“A spell… can you look into that possibility, Hubert?” 

Hubert nods. Edelgard clenches her hands into fists, then unclenches them.

“You’re right: perhaps this mercenary is a spy, and faked the colors to gain my trust. Perhaps the mercenary is one of _them;_ one of their hidden operatives that they don’t deign to identify for us _._ But if that’s so, their objective was terribly executed. I suspected her immediately.”

Hubert shrugs. “We can’t always assume that our enemies will act in the most optimal manner. That in itself may be their plan— to lessen suspicion by way of false inadequacy.”

“Speaking of inadequacy,” Edelgard says ruefully, leaning back on Hubert’s bed, “we scared the old Professor away, but Jeritza wasn’t chosen as his replacement. The plan failed. Just as you said it would.”

“We still accomplished our secondary objectives. We evaluated the other house leaders’ strengths and tested the loyalty of our backup forces. Kostas and his bandits followed your orders well.”

Edelgard twirls a strand of her hair around her fingers. “They fear the Flame Emperor.”

“As well they should,” Hubert says with a smirk. “I’d fear the Flame Emperor too, if only I didn’t know that she bites her nails when she’s nervous and snores in her sleep.”

Edelgard laughs. “Rude, Hubert.”

“I apologize, Lady Edelgard.” He’s smiling as he says it.

“In any case,” Edelgard notes, “Kostas’ loyalty is useless now. His bandits are _weak._ Even without the mercenary on our side, even separated from the Knights of Seiros, Dimitri and Claude were able to clear them out with little to no trouble. We need to dispose of Kostas.”

Hubert frowns. Edelgard quirks an eyebrow at him. 

“Hubert? You can’t possibly be _reluctant_ to dispose of them?”

“Of course not, Lady Edelgard. It’s simply that if we no longer rely on Kostas and his ilk, we’ll have to rely on the Death Knight and, regrettably, on _that_ organization.”

“It’s just until we find trusted soldiers of our own. Besides, all the more reason to investigate the mercenary. If she’s truly a spy for _them,_ we need to know.”

“I’ll leave that to you, Lady Edelgard.” Hubert glances back at his desk. It’s not a dismissal— Hubert would never dare dismiss Edelgard— but it _is_ a notice that Hubert was working on important business and needs to return to it.

“Of course,” Edelgard says, standing up to leave. “I’ll befriend the mercenary, for as long as she remains at Garreg Mach. Figure out what she’s up to, where her allegiance lies…”

Edelgard nods farewell to Hubert and closes his door behind her. There’s no one in the hallway, so Edelgard whispers one last thing,

“... and if, perhaps, she’s truly my soulmate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I value all feedback, and would love to hear any thoughts or ideas you might want to share.


	3. Strategy [Hubert]

Hubert is greeted by silence as he steps into the Black Eagles classroom. It seems he’s the first one here. He sets his books down at a desk in the front row, then places Lady Edelgard’s books on the desk next to his before taking a seat.

A small squeak sounds in the corner, and Hubert turns just in time to see a blur descend beneath one of the desks in the back. Ah. Perhaps he’s not the first one here after all. Hubert considers commanding Bernadetta von Varley to get out from under the desk and sit in a chair, but he quickly discards the thought. It wouldn’t do to give the girl more reasons to be frightened of him. She already flinches when he so much as moves.

The door creaks open. Dorothea Arnault walks in with a smile, followed a minute later by a serious-looking Petra Macneary. Dorothea nods to Hubert and Petra, then smiles at Bernadetta under the desk, eliciting a mumble from the timid girl. 

Dorothea takes a seat in the first row, on the opposite side of Hubert. Petra, focused, sits in the second row, near the outer edge. They unpack their bags and set out their papers, and Dorothea begins humming. Hubert is surprised. Not by the humming itself, but by the fact that he doesn’t find it irritating in the least. Such is the innate talent, clearly, of the songstress who took the world by storm five years ago. 

Petra had closed the door politely behind her, but now it crashes open with a loud thud. Dorothea’s humming stops as someone new enters the classroom.

“Made it!”

Hubert does not need to turn around to tell that this voice belongs to Caspar von Bergliez, second son of the Minister of Military Affairs. No one else could be this exuberant on purpose. Well, no one else except that irritant in orange who dares to consider himself better than Lady Edelgard. But that is irrelevant.

“Hey Hubert! Hey Dorothea! Uh…” Caspar nods in Petra’s direction, a bit uncomfortably, and smiles weakly when she nods back. Predictably, he doesn’t notice Bernadetta at all, and takes a seat on the edge of the second row as far away from Petra as he can manage, near the flickering orange hearth fire at the north end of the room. Then he jumps up again immediately.

“Crap! I forgot my books!” 

Caspar sprints right back out of the classroom, slamming the door open again as he leaves. On his way out, he accidentally bumps into someone trying to enter the classroom.

The irritant in orange, Ferdinand von Aegir himself, recovers from his stumble and walks in through the open door.

“Wow. I did not expect that Caspar could run so fast! However, it is not very noble of him to push me aside without an apology.” He shakes his head disappointedly, and takes the seat next to Dorothea in the front row.

“Hello, Dorothea!”

Dorothea, without a word, sweeps her books into her pack and walks past Ferdinand to the second row, then sits down gracefully in the seat next to Petra before unpacking again.

Hubert sneaks a look at Ferdinand, and is surprised for the second time today. The depth of the hurt and confusion in Ferdinand’s bright orange eyes is... well, it’s really something to behold.

“I’m back!”

It’s Caspar again, and he’s dragging someone behind him. Linhardt von Hevring doesn’t even bother to hide a yawn as he collapses into the seat next to Caspar and immediately drops his head to the table.

Caspar sits down as well. Then he jumps up _again._

“Aw man, I totally forgot I was supposed to bring my books— I was so focused on getting Linhardt— wait a moment, I’ll just—“

“Caspar, sit down; your books are right here,” Linhardt mumbles. His face is still planted into the table— it’s muffling his voice in a rather amusing manner. “You left your study materials in my room yesterday. I brought them to class for you.”

“Really? Thanks, Linhardt! I owe you one!” Caspar digs in Linhardt’s pack and begins setting out his and Linhardt’s books.

At this moment, finally, Lady Edelgard strides through the door. She’s followed by someone else, someone they’ve all seen around the monastery these last few days. The mercenary woman. 

“I apologize for the delay,” Lady Edelgard says, facing the rest of the class. “It seems the staff meeting today took a bit longer than usual. In any case, I’d like to introduce you to Byleth Eisner; daughter of the Blade Breaker, Jeralt Eisner; and former mercenary of his company. She will be our homeroom professor this year.” 

A moment of stunned silence follows Lady Edelgard’s words. Hubert understands— he had been shocked when he had heard as well. Before Edelgard told him, he could have sworn their professor would be—

“Not Jeritza?” says a loud voice from the second row: Caspar, noticeably disappointed.

Linhardt lifts his head from the table to look at the mercenary— the _professor—_ and drops his head back down. “I would have preferred Professor Hanneman myself.”

“Manuela didn’t choose me?” Dorothea asks quietly, and perhaps a little sadly.

Lady Edelgard frowns and opens her mouth to say something, no doubt in response to the rude welcome their new professor seems to be receiving, but Byleth places a hand on her shoulder to stop her and steps forward herself. Byleth’s words are slow and measured, yet sharp.

“I am not so naïve as to believe myself immediately worthy of your respect,” Byleth says. There is a moment of silence, and all eyes are on her.

“However, I do intend to earn that respect eventually. All I ask is that you give me the opportunity to do so. Does that sound fair?”

Ferdinand, in the front row, is the first to smile and nod. The rest of the class follows, and Hubert is glad for that only because of the resulting smile on Lady Edelgard’s face.

“Thank you,” Byleth says. “Now, if you would—” she pauses, confused. “Hold on. There should be eight students in each class. Who’s missing?”

“Bernadetta,” Edelgard notes after a quick glance around the room.

“She’s under the desk in the far corner,” Hubert says. He smirks at the resulting squeak from the back.

 _“Under_ the desk...?” Byleth asks, perplexed. She walks to the back of the room, looks under the corner desk, and then kneels down. There’s a moment or two of silence. Hubert can’t see Byleth from this angle, but he can hear what she says.

“Bernadetta, please, can you sit in a chair? And move forward— just one row forward would be wonderful.”

“D- d- do I have to?” Bernadetta stutters.

“Yes,” Byleth says, not unkindly. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to sit next to anyone else if you don’t want to. Just sit in the desk right in front of you. Can you do that?”

“I think so,” Bernadetta whispers.

“Good,” Byleth says. There’s some shuffling, and then Byleth is back at the front of the class.

“Alright. Now, everyone, if you would take out your copy of ‘War and Tactics’ by Soren Greil, and turn to page 394...”

* * *

“Our professor is actually quite skilled at explaining new topics,” Ferdinand remarks to Edelgard. He shifts his lance in his hands and shuffles his feet on the grass. “I did not think I could _ever_ understand the gravitational formulas in the textbook. Now, I feel like I do.”

They’re at the monastery battle grounds, waiting for the mock battle between the Three Houses to start. Byleth has only been their professor for a week or so, yet Hubert must already grudgingly admit it: Byleth is, in fact, a good professor.

Nevertheless, it should have been Jeritza. Jeritza had been placed here specifically for the purpose of being the professor of the Black Eagles. Hubert and Lady Edelgard gone through so much trouble to get the previous professor evicted— it had been one of the main goals of commanding Kostas and his bandits to attack the training session. The attack had scared the previous professor witless until he fled, showing his true cowardice, and Rhea had been forced to replace him. They had bet upon the fact that Jeritza would be the replacement.

Could Rhea have seen through Hubert’s plans? There seemed to be no other reason Rhea would choose some random mercenary to be a professor instead. Did she know who Jeritza truly was?

“Whether or not the professor is as skilled a tactician as she is a lecturer remains to be seen,” Hubert bites out, more curt than he’d intended. Ferdinand is about to retort when the professor herself strides onto the field.

“Ready, class?”

The four of them— Edelgard, Hubert, Ferdinand, and Dorothea— nod.

The professor doesn’t smile, but a strange competitive glint does appear in her eyes. Hubert stares. It’s not as if Byleth, or Hanneman or Manuela for that matter, will be allowed to fight in this battle. All Byleth is allowed to do is accompany them onto the field and devise their strategy. Hubert wouldn’t have thought something like that would get a mere mercenary so riled up.

“As we discussed, then,” Byleth says. “On my mark…”

Seteth sounds the signal.

“Go!”

* * *

Edelgard doesn’t even need to bait Lorenz out like they’d discussed in training— the boy rushes forward on his own, ignoring Claude’s and Hanneman’s orders to retreat, and is immediately dispatched by Dorothea.

“Lorenz, out!” Seteth calls, and Lorenz grumbles something about nobility as he leaves the field. Hubert blinks at the comment. There’s _another_ Ferdinand at this school? One is more than enough, thank you. Hubert can’t help but relate to Dorothea's victorious smirk as Lorenz walks past her to exit the field.

Ignatz retreats towards Claude and Hilda’s little stronghold in a patch of forest. Hubert can hear Manuela and Dimitri conferring as they order Ashe to test the Black Eagles’ defenses. 

Ashe does so admirably, aiming for Ferdinand. Ferdinand shouts in alarm— he can see Ashe approach, but the archer is too far away for Ferdinand to retaliate—

“Hubert, help Ferdinand.” Lady Edelgard orders. Hubert grumbles and tosses a weakened Miasma at Ashe. Ashe yelps as the darkness splatters on him, then begins to dissipate harmlessly— though it does leave black corroded splotches on his clothes.

“Ashe, out!” Seteth calls. Ashe sighs and leaves the field, accompanied by words of consolation from the rest of the Blue Lions.

Ferdinand glares at Hubert, and it feels like the lancer’s orange eyes are a lit flame, burning a hole into Hubert’s mind.

“You would not have helped me if Edelgard had not ordered you to.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement, so Hubert doesn’t bother to answer.

“Hey Edelgard!” Claude calls out as the Black Eagles approach the flimsy Golden Deer fortifications. “Did you know that Dimitri has a thing for you? Because he totally does— just saying.”

Hubert chuckles darkly. Others might believe that Lady Edelgard would be flustered by such a comment—

Wait. Is she… blushing?

“Hah! I knew it!” Claude crows. “There _is_ something going on between you two!”

“Oooh, is there?” Hilda asks from her position next to Claude. 

“There is _not.”_ Dimitri shouts from across the field. Hubert can faintly make out the sound of Mercedes’ light laughter, and Dedue saying something to Dimitri. Even Ignatz starts to relax.

Byleth moves closer to Edelgard and whispers something in her ear. Hubert watches, curious, as Edelgard stands just a bit straighter. It seems Dorothea was close enough to hear what Byleth said as well, for the young songstress hides a smile in response to the professor’s words.

Then Edelgard scowls at Claude and lowers her axe. “Claude! How dare you insinuate such things with no evidence or proof—” 

With each word, she storms closer to Claude’s fortifications. Her axe and shield are still lowered, and to all the world it looks like she’s forgotten that they’re in a _battle_ right now—

She enters Claude’s range.

“Gotcha,” Claude whispers, and fires his bow at the distracted Edelgard. Hubert starts— what could have possessed Edelgard to walk defenseless into the enemy’s range like that—

“Ferdinand, get Ignatz! Dorothea, the wall in front of Claude! Hubert, aim for Hilda! Now!”

It’s the professor’s voice. 

Of course. He understands now. He doesn’t even need to look to know that Edelgard, fully alert, caught the arrow on her shield. Ferdinand sprints forward and jabs his padded training lance twice at Ignatz’s chest.

“Ignatz, out!” Seteth calls.

Hubert lobs a weakened sphere of Miasma over the wall at Hilda. She shrieks in disgust as the darkness splatters her clothes.

“Hilda, out!”

Dorothea blasts the fortifications open with a Thunder spell as Edelgard lowers her shield, padded arrow falling off the wooden surface. In the same fluid motion, Edelgard swings her padded axe around to a stop just before it reaches Claude’s neck.

“Gotcha,” Edelgard says with a smirk.

“Claude, out!”

Claude laughs and throws his hands up in surrender. “You win, Edelgard! Who would have thought you could _act_ like that? Your anger was convincing— almost like you were a different person!”

“Perhaps I’ve had a lot of practice being a different person,” Edelgard says flippantly. Hubert grimaces as Claude’s eyes narrow in thought. That might have been giving away too much.

“Don’t let them intimidate you,” Dimitri calls to his teammates. “We can still defeat them!”

“Advance!” Manuela shouts.

Dimitri, Dedue, and Mercedes move forward in a group.

“Hubert, Dorothea: team up on Dedue,” Byleth says. “Ferdinand, go for Mercedes. Edelgard, I’ll leave Dimitri to you.”

And it works. The professor’s strategy works. Hubert can see immediately how she’s arranged it— Ferdinand to take out Mercedes, who is defenseless against physical attacks; Hubert and Dorothea both against Dedue so that if Dedue’s ranged axe defeats Hubert, Dorothea can finish him off, and— The professor trusts Lady Edelgard to win against Dimitri, like she knows, somehow, that Lady Edelgard is stronger. 

It’s undeniable that this ex-mercenary truly has insight into the workings of a battle. It’s as if she can visualize how each attack will play out before it happens; as if she has access to a bird’s eye view of the whole battlefield. All the more reason for Hubert to be wary of this new, enigmatic professor.

“Mercedes, out! Hubert, out! Dedue, out!”

Lady Edelgard stands victorious over Dimitri’s fallen form, and Hubert engraves this moment in his memory forever.

“Dimitri, out!” Seteth calls. He raises his hand and sweeps it downwards, signaling the end of the battle.

“Victory goes to the Black Eagles!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this chapter onwards, members of the other houses will start to pop up in the story. A good number of pairs from the other houses are already set in stone (because I ship them myself)— indeed, you’ve already seen a tiny bit of one matched pair. But I’ve yet to finalize about half of them.
> 
> Therefore, _I’m asking for pairing suggestions from all of you!_ Although I can’t promise I’ll use everyone’s suggestions, I’ll definitely take them into account when deciding the soulmate pairs I haven’t finalized yet. So let me know in the comments if there are pairs you’d like to see from the other houses and the Church!
> 
> Please don’t be offended if I don’t use your suggestions— it just means that I already ship one of your pair with someone else. Here are the ones I’ve got so far, and thank you for your input!
> 
> In order of how much I’m committed to the ship, from most to least committed:  
> Ashe/Dedue  
> Catherine/Shamir  
> Felix/Annette  
> Ingrid/Glenn + Sylvain/Ingrid  
> Ignatz/Maya Kirsten  
> Lysithea/Cyril  
> Claude/Hilda
> 
> Feel free to suggest pairings that break one of these as well! Thank you for your input!
> 
>   
> On an unrelated note, if you’re curious, here’s the current Black Eagles seating configuration:
> 
> ————— Front of Classroom ————  
> Row1:  
> |____|Ferdinand| |Edelgard|Hubert|  
> Row2:  
> |Petra|Dorothea| |Linhardt|Caspar|  
> Row3:  
> |Bernadetta|___| |______|______|  
> Row4:  
> |______|______| |______|______|  
> ————————Door—————————
> 
> I also chose to bar Byleth and the other two professors from fighting in the practice match. It makes sense for Byleth to fight when you’re playing the game, because _you’re_ Byleth. But it doesn’t make sense in terms of the storyline— why are professors taking part in a student competition? Keeping the professors as advisors also made for a better story, so I went with it.
> 
> Also, small retcon: Hubert shouldn’t be surprised that the new professor isn’t Jeritza, because Edelgard told him that their plan failed in chapter 2. I’ve changed a sentence in this chapter to fix that.


	4. Intermission [Dorothea]

Dorothea takes her seat with the rest of the Black Eagles at the dining hall. Ever since their first day here, when all the Blue Lions sat together (Dorothea’s heard that most of them knew each other before the academy) and the Golden Deer formed their own clique in response, seats in the dining hall have been segregated by house. No one has been bold enough yet to break the trend.

Edelgard and Caspar are chatting about training while Hubert glares silently at his food. Petra, normally reticent to converse, actually seems interested in something Ferdinand is saying. Dorothea steps closer and discovers that they’re discussing unique weaponry. Of course. 

Dorothea can’t hold back an unreasonable flash of anger at Ferdinand. She had wanted to talk to Petra today, but now that _Ferdinand_ is chatting with the princess, Dorothea can’t. 

It’s a shame, really, because Petra’s eyes have always glowed brightly in Dorothea’s vision. Dorothea isn’t conceited enough to believe that her soulmate is the Princess of Brigid herself, but maybe it’s someone else from Brigid with the same eye color? Marrying a foreign noble would be the perfect way to escape the confines of Imperial high society, while still retaining that mysterious aura that makes a performer so alluring. Besides, Dorothea’s curious about Brigid. It must be so... different from everything Dorothea’s ever known.

Yet even the simple act of finding her soulmate remains a lofty goal. Dorothea can’t afford to be a romantic, not with the circumstances she was born into. She’d settle for marrying anyone with the means to support her, really. As they say: beggars can’t be choosers.

She takes a seat at the far end of the table, across from where Bernadetta and Linhardt would sit if they were actually here. In the seat next to her, Caspar stuffs a full roll of bread into his mouth and proceeds to nearly swallow it whole. Dorothea grimaces, and throws a wistful glance at the young noblemen from the other houses. Why are all the eligible candidates in her own house such… well, dorks?

Today, surprisingly, Professor Byleth joins them, sinking into the seat across from Dorothea with a tired sigh.

“Dorothea. Hazard a guess as to how much paperwork I had to fill out today.”

Dorothea smiles in sympathy. “Tough day, Professor?”

“Yes. Because of the actions of a certain hothead...” She glares at Caspar, who wilts under her stare.

“Uh… sorry, Professor,” Caspar mumbles, then straightens up. “But you’ve gotta admit: no matter _how_ noble that guy was, he really shouldn’t have been saying things like that. I just _had_ to beat him up!”

Dorothea raises an eyebrow. Isn’t Caspar a noble himself? Why does he seem so oddly dismissive of his rank?

Ferdinand, to Dorothea’s extreme surprise, nods in agreement. “That man was a disgrace to noble society. I admit your methods are a bit… uncouth, Caspar, but I am quite glad you put that scoundrel in his place.”

Byleth grits her teeth. “Ferdinand, don’t encourage him. Caspar, fighting is _not_ always the solution.”

“Says who?” Caspar half-shouts, standing up.

“Caspar, please.” Edelgard says, which gets Caspar to sit down again.

“It is sometimes necessary to take matters into one’s own hands,” Edelgard continues. “Yet there are times when it’s appropriate to refer a problem to a higher authority—”

“What, why?” Caspar scoffs, anger rising. “Why would I wait for someone else when I can just beat up the bad guy myself?”

For just one moment, something akin to surprise flashes in Edelgard’s eyes. Dorothea’s always been good at reading others— it’s how she survived in the performance industry. So she can see it— the understanding, the mirrored determination— Edelgard agrees with Caspar’s statement. No, it’s more than that: Edelgard is shocked to hear something she so identifies with from such an unexpected source. 

Edelgard recovers within a fraction of a second. “That may be true, but there _are_ times when we must rely on others. I recognize that each of us has inherited different responsibilities, but—”

Caspar scowls and waves a hand at her accusingly. Edelgard stops, puzzled.

“See?” Caspar says. “You’re doing it again. You always have to make everything about yourself, don’t you? Like I said last time: no disrespect, but you’ve gotta stop. I’m not some— I’m doing _fine_.”

Edelgard’s composure doesn’t drop a bit. “If that is how you choose to interpret my words, please believe that it was not my intention. I respect your talents.”

Caspar picks up his bowl. “Right. Yeah. I’m gonna finish my food in the library.”

Edelgard stays silent, pensive. Ferdinand raises an eyebrow as the younger boy leaves. “Caspar? The _library_?”

Dorothea stares after him, but she’s not thinking about Caspar and Edelgard’s argument anymore. Her mind has skipped to a different track, where the pieces fall together and fit perfectly. Caspar can see all colors. So can Linhardt. Dorothea smiles again, and this time it’s a smile of teasing warmth, with just a tinge of jealousy. 

“Of course. Because _Linhardt’s_ in the library. How sweet.”

She knows it now with unrivaled certainty. Caspar and Linhardt are soulmates.

That’s two less nobles on her list of prospective suitors. And two more people she can be herself around. And two people she’s now, somehow, just a tiny bit jealous of.

Meanwhile, Byleth realizes something, groans, and stands up. She strides after Caspar, shouting.

“Caspar! You’re not allowed to eat in the library! You’ll ruin the books! Get _back_ here!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter’s done as well! Just have to fix some things up before posting it.


	5. Songstress [Dorothea]

Anxiety bubbles in Dorothea’s chest as she stands in front of Manuela’s office. She raises her hand to knock, then lowers it. She’s losing her nerve. 

What will Manuela think of her being here? Dorothea didn’t join the monastery _just_ to follow her idol— she was trying to secure her own future as well— but what if Manuela thinks she’s stalking her? Does Manuela even remember Dorothea as anything more than one of the assorted members of the Mittelfrank Opera Company? Does she remember that day eight years ago, when she heard Dorothea singing on the streets and decided to give her a shot at a whole new life?

Does Manuela know how much she means to Dorothea?

Dorothea’s heart is still pounding like she’s just come back from an unusually strenuous training session. She places one hand over her chest as if to stifle the sound.

And with her other hand, she knocks.

Professor Manuela opens the door, looking surprisingly sober. She breaks into a warm smile once she recognizes her visitor.

“Oh my! Dorothea!”

Manuela reaches over and pulls Dorothea into a hug. For those few seconds, Dorothea struggles to fight back tears. This feels… like home. She takes a sharp breath and barely manages to pull herself together again, just as Manuela pulls away to hold Dorothea at arms’ length. The younger songstress pastes on a grin and does her best to keep it steady.

“Professor Manuela!” Dorothea says. She’s proud to say her voice only wobbles a little. “It’s been far too long since we’ve had a proper chat...”

* * *

Dorothea doesn’t bother to acknowledge Ferdinand as he strides into the classroom. He seems excited— he has a spring in his step.

“Hello, Dorothea, Petra, Caspar! Have you heard that we are being sent to fight _real_ bandits this month?”

Dorothea looks up from her books, surprised. 

“What? Aren’t we a little too… young for that?” Dorothea had assumed the lines in the curriculum about ‘fighting battles in service of the Church’ were just a glorified description of adult-supervised training.

Petra closes her eyes. “Soldiers even having the age of fifteen or sixteen were being sent to fight from Brigid in the Brigid and Dagda war. Many were losing their lives on the battlefield quickly.”

Though Petra doesn’t notice, Dorothea watches Caspar wince and turn away. Right. Caspar’s father probably killed a lot of those fifteen-year-olds himself.

A new voice chimes in. “It’s of vital importance for future officers such as ourselves to have experience with real combat.”

Edelgard has just walked in with Professor Byleth, both of them coming straight from their staff meeting. 

“We can hardly consider ourselves full-fledged officers if we’ve never been on the battlefield. This is our first of many opportunities to build that experience.”

“And we’ll be fighting to protect the commonfolk, as any proper noble should!” Ferdinand’s enthusiasm is decidedly _not_ infectious, Dorothea thinks privately.

Caspar shrugs. “Can’t say I’m not excited to finally kick injustice in the— !” Caspar doesn’t finish his sentence, thwarted by a glare from Byleth.

Petra simply looks determined. “I have much preparation and readiness.”

Dorothea wishes she could say the same.

* * *

Bernadetta wrings her hands, glance shifting. “Maybe I can just… stay in my room tomorrow, and you guys can all fight the bandits without me! I mean, I’m worthless anyways— I’d just be holding you all back…”

Linhardt shakes his head. “I tried hiding in my room during the training session last week. The professor dragged me out of bed herself. She’s deceptively strong.”

“So— there’s no escape?!” Bernadetta’s voice goes shrill, and strands of her gray-purple hair fall to cover her face. “I _really_ don’t want to do this!”

“Do you think _I’ve_ suddenly developed a propensity for violence? I’m certainly not looking forward to it either.” Linhardt doesn’t seem outwardly affected, but the truth of his admission is clear from the tightness of his stance.

“I think,” Dorothea says carefully, “that if we want to move forward in the world, then we have no choice.”

* * *

Eight students in school uniforms and one professor in strange mercenary garb stand alone on a rocky plain. The earth is dry and barren, and a strong wind blusters through everyone’s clothes and hair. Dorothea almost wishes she was wearing armor; it would be warmer than this blasted uniform. She relents to the fury of the wind and buttons the collar of her uniform up completely. There’s probably no one here who appreciates her figure anyways.

“What makes a man— or a woman— ready for battle?” Byleth asks. 

The professor’s staring into the distance, across the bridge, waiting for a sign of the bandits they’re supposed to destroy.

“All you need for battle is strength!” Caspar shouts. Byleth inclines her head, accepting the answer.

Ferdinand, in the most self-assured tone Dorothea can imagine, says, “Practice and noble perseverance prepare one for combat.”

Byleth looks amused. “Is that what your tutors told you, Ferdinand?”

Ferdinand, though a little embarrassed, nods and responds. “The soldiers I trained with always said so as well. Practice makes perfect, does it not?”

Byleth’s lips quirk upwards ever so slightly, this time in a more genuine manner. “True enough, I suppose.” She looks at the rest of them, waiting for a response. 

“I am agreeing with Caspar and Ferdinand, Professor,” Petra says. “but in the end, it is simply being my skill with my weapons that is improving my battle ability.” Petra’s form and stance have indeed been impeccable in training. Dorothea can’t help but admire her talent. And those deep, sparkling mauve eyes...

But it’s Dorothea’s turn to answer now and she still doesn’t understand what the professor’s getting at. She shrugs. 

“Enough practice can lead to being skilled and strong. So… practice, I guess.” It galls her to agree with Ferdinand.

“I’d say strategy and planning are what prepare us for battle.” Hubert’s answer, unsurprisingly, comes with an edge to his voice. “Isn’t that right, professor? You _are_ our strategist.”

Byleth nods again in response, unfazed. “And it will be my job to keep you safe. But strategy alone does not prepare you for battle. Neither does just practice, or skill, or strength. So what is it?”

There is silence for a bit, and the sound of the rushing wind.

“The conviction to kill.” Edelgard declares quietly. She’s staring right at the professor. Her axe is held, loose and ready, in her hand. “That is what prepares you for battle. The determination to overcome your foes, no matter the cost.”

“Perhaps,” Byleth allows. The professor’s face is unreadable.

“I— I don’t think _anything_ can prepare me for battle!” Bernadetta whimpers. “Can I just go home?”

The young archer is shivering, but not, it seems, from the cold. She clutches an arrow anxiously in one hand, and as Dorothea watches, accidentally squeezes too hard and cuts herself on the arrowhead. Bernadetta yelps and drops the arrow. The cut’s too small to drip blood, but dark liquid wells up at the line.

Dorothea feels her heart clench in sympathy. She herself was once like that— terrified of the rest of the world to the point of paranoia. So Dorothea pulls out her best smile and aims it at Bernadetta. 

“It’ll be okay, Bernie! Have courage.” 

“But… what if they _catch_ me? I don’t want to die!”

“We’re fighting brigands,” Linhardt comments dryly. “Terrible villains who do terrible things to small, defenseless students like us. We won’t _just_ be killed. They’ll almost certainly torture us first.”

“Stop! D-don’t _say_ things like that…!” Bernadetta shrieks, the effects of Dorothea’s soothing words immediately undone.

Dorothea is about to scowl at Linhardt, but when she looks over, she can’t help but notice his hands clenched tightly on the spine of his spellbook. Right. He’s dreading this as well.

Words flash through her mind— the same words the professor whispered to Edelgard last month in the mock battle, the words that had prompted Edelgard to put on an act, luring Claude into a trap.

_All the world’s a stage._

Suddenly, Dorothea knows how to dispel hopelessness.

Dorothea tosses another kind smile and a wink at Bernadetta. Then she begins to sing quietly— a marching ballad from “The Shadow Dragon,” one of the oldest operas she knows. It’s a compelling song, about bravery and hope and honorable foes. The rest of the Black Eagles students stand straighter as they listen. She gets to the part where the Hero King waits for his beloved queen to soar down on her pegasus to meet him. Then, abruptly, Dorothea stops singing.

Bernadetta actually does seem less nervous. The cut from the arrowhead that Bernadetta obtained five minutes ago also seems to be… healed already? Strange. Perhaps Linhardt healed her during Dorothea’s performance?

Speaking of: Linhardt doesn’t look so rigid anymore either, which is good. Although that might also have something to do with the fact that, while Dorothea was singing, Caspar stepped over and touched Linhardt’s arm, then whispered something into his ear.

Now, in the silence, Byleth draws her sword. She’s noticed what prompted Dorothea to stop singing.

“They’re here. All units, advance.”

* * *

Dorothea can’t help but marvel at how none of them have been badly wounded so far. It’s as if the professor can predict what the enemy’s going to do before they do it. 

Still, Dorothea doesn’t think she’ll ever forget the look on the face of the young bandit she just electrocuted a few minutes ago— the first person she’s ever killed. The gray smoke had sparked upwards around his scorched flesh, that, when mixed with the hazy residue from her magical lightning bolt, made his burnt skin look a deep purple-brown, just at the edges of the spectrum she can see. She had wanted to retch. She still does.

“We’re splitting up!” Byleth shouts as her sword scores a deep gash in an enemy mage’s chest. The mage falls to the ground, incapacitated.

“Edelgard, Linhardt, Hubert, Caspar, and myself will take the main route forward. Petra, Ferdinand, Dorothea, Bernadetta— sneak around the side and stop the enemy from surrounding us as we take the central platform.”

Byleth presses a key into Petra’s hand and points. “Petra, open that chest and take whatever’s in it.”

Petra nods.

“Good. Dorothea, you’re the healer for this group. Keep Petra, Ferdinand, and Bernadetta alive.”

“Wait, what?!” Dorothea grabs the professor’s trailing sleeves— Byleth has already turned away. “Professor! I don’t know any healing spells yet!“

“Then try something else,” Byleth says, matter-of-fact. “I know you can do it.”

 _What in the world?_ Except Dorothea… might actually have an idea of what Byleth means. She’s noticed for some time that her songs have power. And just now, with Bernadetta’s cut…

Nothing left to do but accept it.

“I’ll do my best, Professor.”

* * *

An arrow strikes Petra in the left shoulder, tearing into unguarded flesh. The huntress doesn’t even cry out— just grits her teeth and continues to strike at the brigand she was already fighting, three times as deadly, like a cornered predator. Only once the foe in front of her has been felled does Petra drop silently to her knees on the gray rocks, letting the pain hit her, tears welling. She scrunches her eyes closed, and her breaths come sharp and fast as she curls inward. The arrow is still embedded in her flesh, and blood pools around the metal and drips onto the barren rock floor.

 _No!_ Dorothea screams internally. Petra’s still in range of that archer, and Dorothea’s too far away. She _has_ to get closer before that archer shoots again, or else—!

But the other two are already running to help. Bernadetta shrieks something and nails the offending archer with two consecutive arrows. Meanwhile, Ferdinand darts forward and pulls Petra behind him. Lance in hand, back turned from Dorothea and the others, he fends off the other two bandits alone until Bernadetta and Dorothea are able to come to his aid. By the time they’ve cleared out the bandits in the immediate vicinity, numerous scratches mar Ferdinand’s armor and a few light gashes leak blood.

Dorothea runs to Petra. The young huntress— only fifteen, Dorothea reminds herself— grits her teeth and tries to stand, only to fall to her knees again. This time, she lets out a gasp as she jars her shoulder. Tears overflow, trail down her cheeks, and drip to the dirt.

“Petra!” Dorothea says in a rush, hands hovering uselessly. “Petra, are you— it’s going to be okay, just— hold on—”

Petra nods, eyes still screwed shut, breathing hard.

Ferdinand reaches into his pack and pulls out a vulnerary without even looking, like he’s done this many times before.

“Here. Drink this. It will help with the pain.” 

Petra takes it with her good arm and downs it in one go.

Dorothea knows what she has to do next. She closes her eyes, willing herself to concentrate. “Ferdie, once I start singing, pull the arrow out. Got it?”

“You’re going to _sing_? _Now_? While I must say I am always quite appreciative of the opera, now might not be the time for—”

“Ferdinand. Shut up and do as I say.”

A typical noble would have blown up at her. Ferdinand, however, just stares at her for a few seconds, then, with a surprisingly confused and hurt look, nods.

Dorothea puts that out of her mind for now. She looks at Petra, kneeling on the ground, brave enough to bear pain without complaint, and agile enough to fight on the front lines, always ready to deal the killing blow. She’s as sharp as her blade, lethal and mysterious and determined.

Out of all the opera songs she knows, Dorothea has to pick the right song. A song to bolster the spirit of a young huntress from afar…

The song of Lyndis, Heroine of the Plains.

Dorothea launches into the final musical number from the first arc of the Legend of the Blazing Blade. Her voice dips low and sombre as she sings of the massacre of the Plains and Lyn’s desperate escape into lands where she is ostracized for her foreign heritage. Yet the tune spirals upwards again, bright and hopeful, as Dorothea details Lyn’s sublime swordwork and dedication, and her innate charisma that draws allies to join Lyn’s quest for justice.

As Petra’s wound begins to glow with the light of healing, Ferdinand yanks the arrow out of Petra’s shoulder. Dorothea’s singing falters as Petra visibly bites back a scream and clutches at her arm. However, the wound continues to glow and starts to heal.

So Dorothea keeps singing, and starts tossing Thunder spells at approaching enemies while doing so. Ferdinand and Bernadetta fight as well, lashing out with their weapons of choice.

Petra, her healing still in progress, kneels in place by Dorothea’s side. The huntress listens in silence to the song for a full minute in the middle of the raging battlefield, her expression clearing and melting from pained incomprehension into curious wonder as she shares in the story of Lyn’s exploits. Dorothea leaves once to toss a ray of lightning over Ferdinand’s head at a vulnerable foe, but returns immediately afterwards. Slowly but surely, as the song winds on, Petra’s wounds close over.

Ferdinand stands by Dorothea for a few seconds as she sings, his face a silent mask threaded through with wistfulness. Dorothea watches as her song knits together the gashes he received from defending Petra. He waits as long as he dares before tearing himself away to rejoin the fight.

The song ends with a final series of trills as Lyndis’ Legions reconquer the country of Caelin from oppressors, then celebrate their heroic victory. 

Petra is staring up at Dorothea with a strange look on her face, a mix of wonder and gratitude and something else. She makes a move as if to reach out to Dorothea, then stops abruptly and says something in a foreign language— the language of Brigid.

“Sorry, what was that, Petra?”

Petra shakes her head, blinking. “I was saying... you are looking like the storm spirits. They are singing the song of battles and destroying their opponents.”

That’s a compliment, right? “Thank you?” 

Petra inclines her head. “You are welcome.”

Dorothea’s tired, but satisfied. Relief courses through Dorothea’s veins, but she’s almost too exhausted to feel it.

“It’s good that you’re alright, Petra,” Dorothea manages to say. “You’re a good friend. I’d be devastated if something happened to you.”

A smile lights up Petra’s face, and her eyes sparkle.

“You are having my thanks, Dorothea, for the healing you are giving to me. I am very glad to be having your friendship.”

Petra bows low, then dashes away to join Ferdinand on the front lines.

* * *

The four of them clear their side of foes and rejoin the professor without any more trouble. Edelgard and Caspar have cornered the bandits’ leader on a healing tile.

“Wait!” the brigand shrieks, terrified. “Don’t kill me! I was just following orders!”

Edelgard advances on him, threatening, and he seems to recognize her, and then the professor. He screams and steps back.

“You’re the ones who ruined my arm! Please— I’ll tell you anything you want to know— Here: the one who ordered me to attack those noble brats! It was the Flame—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence; instead, a ball of dark gray-purple Miasma sinks into his chest and consumes him from the inside out. Dorothea looks away from the man’s quick but violent death.

“Hubert,” Byleth reprimands as she sheathes her sword. “We could have learned something from him.”

“I apologize, Professor.” Hubert says. “I saw the glint of another weapon held behind his back. I had to take him out before he could use it on Lady Edelgard.”

“He’s only got one weapon,” Caspar notes. He’s rolled the body over with a foot to check.

Hubert inclines his head politely. “Then I must apologize again. My mistake, Professor.”

* * *

“Professor?” Dorothea asks as they ride back to the monastery. “What was the answer to the question you asked us before the fight? What _is_ the thing that prepares you for battle?”

A hint of a smile appears on Byleth’s face. “I’m glad you asked. Bernadetta was the closest to the right answer.”

“Bernadetta?” Dorothea thinks back to that conversation. “She said she was scared. She said… _nothing_ could prepare her for…?”

Byleth nods. “Yes, that was almost it. But it wasn’t the complete answer.”

“Then, what…”

Byleth has a faraway look in her eyes. At times like this, Dorothea can’t help but wonder what exactly their professor is hiding.

“The complete answer,” Byleth says, “is that nothing can truly prepare one for battle— except battle itself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorothea’s healing ability is her canon personal skill, Songstress! I really love the idea of music conducting magic— (as is evident in my Silmarillion fics as well)— so I centered this chapter around that skill and its ability to heal up to 10% of adjacent allies’ HP per turn.
> 
> Next chapter will probably be from Caspar’s PoV, or Linhardt’s. Hope you’ll stay tuned for more!
> 
> By the way, I’ve finally finished all three main lord routes of FE:3H! I’m not going to play Silver Snow, so this means you can now spoil anything to me in the comments, if you’d like. Of course, I will try not to spoil anything past the first half of the game in this fic.
> 
> Now for some optional gameplay strategy notes. Feel free to ignore:
> 
> Ferdinand has the ability to pull Petra around him to safety because he’s reclassed to Soldier and learned the mastery skill Reposition. Petra got a critical hit on the bandit that she was attacking because of her personal skill, Hunter’s Boon, which gives her +20 crit on enemies with <= half their HP, and she’d already counterattacked him on the enemy’s turn to lower his HP. Bernadetta got to shoot two arrows consecutively at an archer without being counterattacked because of her Crest of Indech.
> 
> Strategy is fun, especially when I get to use it to advance my plot :).


	6. Strength [Caspar]

The crack of a thunderstorm sounds overhead and Caspar burrows further into the blankets in his room. His best friend is sitting at the table, doing homework— or maybe he’s just researching as usual; Caspar’s not sure. All Caspar can see from this angle is that he’s scrawling furiously on pieces of parchment.

Another booming crack overhead. Caspar shudders and a noise escapes him— more high-pitched than he’d like to admit. Linhardt glances over at him.

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Yup! ‘m fine,” Caspar manages to say. “Don’t worry ‘bout me—”

Another crack of thunder explodes in the sky, and Caspar's breath catches in his throat. In a flash, he’s eight years old again, standing by the side of a sharp cliff in the middle of a thunderstorm. Rain pools in the bashed and broken remains of their carriage and washes a thick ooze of blood down his mother’s leg, which is bent at an unnatural angle from the crash. Caspar’s arm feels wrong, and his mother isn’t waking up, and the storm rages overhead, and the flashes of lightning are spikes of pain and the sound of thunder is _crushing_ _him_ —

“ _Caspar_. Caspar, shhh.”

He isn’t aware that he’s whimpering until he registers the concerned note in Linhardt’s voice. Linhardt sighs and approaches the bed. He kneels in front of Caspar, slim fingers resting gently on Caspar’s bare shoulders. Caspar’s shivers begin to still under Linhardt’s light touch.

As always, Linhardt speaks slowly, carefully, and Caspar holds tight to the familiar words of their ritual.

“Close your eyes,” Linhardt says.

Caspar does.

“Now listen.” Linhardt’s voice is like a calm breeze, cutting through the storm. 

“You’re running to the oak tree outside Hevring manor. The skies are clear, the grass is soft, and the sun shines warmly on your face. You see me sitting under the tree. You take my hand.”

Linhardt holds his left hand out and waits until Caspar takes it in his right. Then Linhardt shuffles to sit next to him on the bed, tracing light patterns on Caspar’s palm with his fingers. Caspar screws his eyes further shut. He’s still breathing hard, and the thud of his heartbeat is loud enough to drown out everything but the thunder and the sound of Linhardt’s voice.

“We blink,” Linhardt continues, “and when we open our eyes again, the world isn’t dull anymore— it’s a brighter place. And you’re safe.”

Caspar feels his harsh breaths begin to slow. He hears rustling again, and feels the blankets shift as Linhardt slides under the covers to curl up next to him. They’re still holding hands. Caspar concentrates on the feeling of his soulmate’s soft fingers intertwined with his own. 

Linhardt lets his head fall to rest on Caspar’s shoulder.

“Wake me if you need me,” Linhardt says with a yawn, fondness woven through his voice. His eyes shutter closed, and his breathing evens out within minutes.

Yet Caspar can’t seem to fall asleep. Even as the thunderstorm outside begins to die down, as the pattering of the rain slowly grinds to a halt, Caspar’s still wide awake. He can’t help but relive that dreadful memory, the memory of the crash, over and over again. 

With Linhardt next to him, though, the memory’s hold on him is weaker than ever. Maybe one day, he won’t be troubled by it anymore.

A few minutes after the rain stops, there’s a knock on the door.

“...Caspar? Are you in here?” the voice outside the door is familiar, but there’s a tremor in the words.

“Ashe?” 

Caspar’s not sure why Ashe is calling on him at this hour. He slips Linhardt’s head carefully off his shoulder and onto the pillows, then slides out from under the blankets to open the door. 

Ashe stumbles in. The archer’s eyes are reddened, evidence of recently shed tears. Caspar almost assumes Ashe’s afraid of storms too, until he sees the crumpled letter in Ashe’s hand. Something on that letter might be causing his distress.

Ashe is a friend, and one of the few people Caspar has met who’s just as dedicated to justice as Caspar himself. So though Caspar’s still shaken from the storm, he puts on a brave face— the archer deserves that much from him.

“Hey, Ashe! What’s wrong? Can I help?”

Ashe bites his lip and looks up at the ceiling. He just stands there for a few seconds, focusing on breathing. Like he’s trying not to cry.

Then he looks into the room— and sees Linhardt lying in Caspar’s bed. His eyebrows hit the ceiling and he gasps.

“Is that… _Linhardt_!?”

Caspar blinks, confused. “Uh, yeah? Why?”

The tips of Ashe’s ears are slowly turning red. He looks away. He seems to have temporarily put his sorrow aside in favor of being... embarrassed?

“Right… so you two are, you know, sleeping together. How long have you been— I mean… I’m not against— I just had no idea!”

Oh.

Caspar feels himself flush bright red in an instant as he catches on to what Ashe has assumed. It’s true that Linhardt looks a bit disheveled, and Caspar’s wearing a thin sleeveless shirt, but—

“ _What?_ ” Caspar’s voice goes up an octave. “N— no! He’s just— I—"

Ashe is staring studiously at the corner of the ceiling. “...Because I can come back later; I didn’t mean to interrupt you or anything—"

“There’s nothing to interrupt!” Caspar screeches, then realizes that he might have accidentally woken Linhardt. He whips around to check, and thankfully, Lin’s still asleep. Good thing, too, since Linhardt’s been having nightmares recently. Caspar knows he needs the rest.

And Caspar still has to explain himself. Admitting his fear is embarrassing enough on its own. He continues in a quieter voice.

“Listen, Ashe, I… get really scared of storms. Linhardt’s been my friend for a long time. He… uh,” Caspar isn’t sure how to say this. “He knows how I react when there’s a… So... he helps me through them.”

Ashe’s expression softens into a smile. Not mocking or anything like that. Just fond. Caspar’s impression of Ashe was already pretty high, and it jumps up another notch right there.

“That’s very kind of him,” Ashe comments. “Lonato used to do the same thing for me when I was younger.”

Ashe’s grip tightens on the paper in his hand, and the sorrow falls back into his eyes.

“Which is, in fact, part of the reason I’ve come to visit you. Lonato is a good man...” Ashe takes a deep breath. “I need to ask your professor something. As soon as possible. Please, Caspar, take me to wherever she usually is at this time.”

* * *

“Absolutely not,” Byleth declares. 

She has a stack of papers in front of her that she’s in the process of covering liberally with red correction marks. Caspar’s pretty sure he can see a corner of his own exam sticking out of the stack. He winces. Damn, that’s a lot of red.

Ashe bites his lip. “Please, Professor Byleth. I… I _have_ to know what’s going on! Lonato isn’t—“

“I understand, Ashe. But there is no way I’m allowing you to participate in what would be an extremely emotional fight for you. You will _not_ be accompanying the Black Eagles to this battle.”

Ashe’s hands are shaking. “Professor, _please._ ”

Byleth does look like she regrets having to do this, but she doesn’t budge an inch. “No, Ashe.”

Caspar steps forward hesitantly. “Hey, uh, Professor? What if he promised not to fight? He could come along and, um, watch or something. Or help in some other way?”

Ashe shoots Caspar a grateful look.

But Byleth simply shakes her head. “I will not bring someone to the battlefield if I cannot send them to battle. A soldier paired with another, though he or she might benefit from merely watching the battle, is still a liability. Until I am confident that I can keep you all safe, I won’t risk it.”

The professor sighs and holds Ashe’s gaze. “So, no, Ashe. You cannot accompany us. That’s final. Understand?”

Ashe can’t seem to bring himself to speak past the lump in his throat, so he just nods. Caspar’s troubled gaze follows him as he leaves the room in silence.

* * *

The supply carts rumble through the misty forest at a rather sedate pace, and Caspar’s getting bored. He’d consider asking if they’re here yet, but Hubert’s glare had promised murder if Caspar so much as thought about uttering those words again. Fine. He can tell when he’s being annoying— he’ll stop. Doesn’t make this trip any less boring though. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Caspar sees a flash of movement behind one of the supply carts. That’s weird. Caspar and Petra are on duty at the moment, and should be the only ones guarding this part of the caravan.

“Hey, uh, Petra? Did you see something move over there?” Caspar whispers.

Petra shakes her head. “I am not having sight of any unusual things.”

“Huh. Must have been my imagination.”

A few minutes later, Caspar sees it again.

“Look, over there! There was a flash of movement. From right next to that cart, I think.”

“I am still not having sight of this.”

“No, look, there really was something there!”

Petra turns to him with that piercing gaze of hers, and Caspar realizes that she probably thinks he’s messing with her on purpose. Great. He’s already ruined his friendship with her because of his father’s role in the war, and now she’s going to think he’s vindictive without reason. He resists the urge to facepalm— she’d probably just misinterpret that gesture as well.

“I swear, Petra, there _was_ something near the cart. I think it went inside—“

Just then, a thump sounds from within that very same supply cart. Petra clearly hears it as well, as she’s already drawn her sword, advancing towards the cart silently. The professor gave her a key to the cart earlier, and she uses it now, still as quiet as possible, to remove the padlock from the door. Then she gestures at Caspar and mimes opening the door and punching.

Caspar grins and nods agreement. He slams the door open, brandishing his gauntlets as he shouts, “Who do you think you—!”

“Aaah!” The voice is younger than Caspar would have expected for a Western Church spy. “Don’t hurt me, I’m just—“

Caspar lowers his fists, incredulous.

“Ashe!?”

“Caspar!”

A moment of silence, and then Ashe rushes to speak.

“Listen, Caspar, you can’t tell anyone—“

“You are being… Ashe. From the Blue Lions house, yes?”

“And you’re Petra. It’s, um, it’s nice to meet you. Honestly, I wish we could have met under better circumstances, but…”

“Ashe, what are you _doing_ here?” Caspar hisses. “If the professor finds out—“

“If I find out _what_ , exactly?”

Caspar suppresses a yelp as he whirls to find Professor Byleth, of all people, staring over his shoulder. She notices Ashe, and Caspar has to admit that the lack of expression on her face is scarier than any anger she could have shown.

“Ashe, if you would step out here for a moment?”

Ashe climbs out of the supply wagon.

“Thank you, Ashe. Now, a question for you. How did you get into the locked and guarded supply carts?”

Ashe stares at his shoes. “I— I can pick locks. And I’m good at sneaking into places. It’s what I had to do to survive, before Lonato…”

“I see.”

There is a short silence.

“Professor,” Ashe tries. “I didn’t mean to—“

Byleth pinches the bridge of her nose with her fingers. “I know, Ashe. Just… give me a moment.”

She turns to Caspar and Petra.

“You two, to the front of the convoy. Now. There were more enemy forces than anticipated, and the fighting has spilled over to the rear. They’ve engaged us in battle. The others are fighting as we speak, under Catherine’s leadership.”

Wait. That means Linhardt’s in battle without Caspar by his side. If Caspar’s not there, how can he keep his promise— the words he whispered to Linhardt before last month’s assault on the bandits? How can Caspar fulfill his mission to keep Linhardt out of the fighting at all costs? Caspar’s itching to head to the front right this moment, but Professor Byleth is still talking.

“Petra, take over for Ferdinand once you reach the front lines— he’s been wounded. Caspar, go support Edelgard. And Ashe…”

Under all this pressure, Ashe stands straighter than he ever has. Both determination and doubt gleam in his eyes.

Byleth sighs. “Go with them. Join the battle. But remember, no matter who you’re fighting, I expect you to act professionally. You are a soldier of Garreg Mach now.”

“Yes, Professor. But I… I still think something’s wrong. Lonato would never…”

Byleth gets a faraway look in her eyes.

“Most people, Ashe, have many different sides to them. The nature of the hidden facets of someone’s character can be incredibly unpredictable. It’s always better to prepare yourself for the worst.”

Ashe gulps, then nods, but Caspar isn’t there to see it anymore. He’s already sprinting towards the battle.

In the middle of Byleth’s speech, Caspar had felt a terrifying stab of heartache in his chest, accompanied by a wash of fear. These certainly aren’t his own emotions, which means they’re Linhardt’s. Linhardt is in danger.

 _Linhardt_ is in _danger._ Caspar has to get there. Now.

This overwhelming numbness with an edge of pain— was this how Linhardt had felt on that day ten years ago, as Caspar had stumbled into Hevring manor soaked and trembling, with his injured arm clutched to his side as blood dripped down his face and his torn clothes?

Caspar sure hopes not, because this hurts. He wishes he had something orange on him so he could check if his color vision is going as well— so he can check if Linhardt is dying. As it stands, the uncertainty is killing him.

He breaks into a run, tearing through the forest, and through the dense fog blanketing the world around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the super long break in updates! I’ve been extremely busy. 
> 
> If you're interested, here are some details from the game:  
> Ashe’s personal skill from the game is Locktouch, which allows him to open chests and doors without a key. That’s how he snuck into the convoy. Byleth won't let Ashe come to battle as an adjutant because she's not a level C professor yet, which is the requirement to send adjutants to the field. However, Ashe still gets to fight because this is the first level in the game where you can temporarily recruit students from other houses to battle.
> 
> And if you're interested, details from my Colors-verse:  
> The complementary shade to your soulmate’s color is the first to turn to gray in your vision when your soulmate is dying. That’s why Caspar wants to see something orange— he knows that if he can still see orange, then Linhardt’s not fatally wounded. Otherwise...
> 
> Lin and Cas’s little ritual is based on how they met— read the prequels for more info :).


	7. Justice [Caspar]

Caspar’s lungs are burning as he sprints through the forest. He can hear Ashe shout something at him from behind, and Byleth reply in a quieter tone. Their voices fade quickly as he leaves them behind.

The thrill of battle has always made Caspar feel invincible. Linhardt’s different though— Caspar knows that. Though Caspar made sure Linhardt hadn’t needed to fight anyone last month, just the sight of so much blood had been enough to bring back Linhardt’s nightmares. If something’s happened to Linhardt now, Caspar could never forgive himself.

As Caspar runs, Petra, surprisingly, is keeping pace right beside him. She doesn’t look at him. Or even stop to question why he’s running this fast. Caspar has no idea what’s going through her head, but he’s glad someone else is here with him in this mad sprint through the dense fog.

“Caspar!”

The call comes from a familiar figure, waving from a copse of trees. It’s Ferdinand. Caspar feels his knees go weak with relief— he can still see the hue of Ferdinand’s hair. The color orange still registers in his vision. Linhardt’s not dying. 

“Ferdinand!”

The figure gets clearer as Caspar and Petra approach, and now Caspar can see that another shadowed figure is standing beside Ferdinand in the trees. Hubert is clearly in the middle of a rant, and he doesn’t let Caspar’s arrival stop him.

“—ridiculous fool; what possessed you to jump in front of that attack? Lady Edelgard could have handled herself, and if you had been hit _twice_ —”

Ferdinand scowls up at Hubert. “Edelgard was wounded. She is not infallible, Hubert, no matter what you wish to think, and I am clearly better equipped to handle such situations than she is.”

“You are absolutely _incorrigible_. That you could even _dare_ to presume yourself more capable than she is— it’s beyond ridiculous. You could have died. In fact, you _would_ have died, if that mage had aimed just a tad more to the left the first time.”

“But the mage only hit me once. So my decision was correct.”

Caspar wouldn’t normally mind Hubert and Ferdinand’s bickering, but he’s got more pressing matters on his mind now. He’s been looking around, but the fog is thick and he can’t see as far as he’d like to.

“Guys. Where’s Linhardt?”

Hubert jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

“That way. Bernadetta’s keeping an eye on him. Tell him to snap out of it— we need him here to heal this blithering idiot.”

“I am _not_ —” Ferdinand splutters, indignant.

“I have finding of Linhardt!” Petra calls out. Caspar follows the sound of her voice and skids to a stop in front of a large tree.

Linhardt is slumped against the trunk, with Bernadetta kneeling next to him. His eyes are unfocused, one hand clutching at the fabric of his uniform above his chest. He’s paler than usual and breathing deeply, as if nauseous. A wooden lance lays on the dark grass beside his right hand.

More importantly, Linhardt’s entire right side is splattered with blood, and there’s a dead soldier in the trees beside him.

Bernadetta gets up when she sees Caspar and Petra approach. She holds her bow in front of her and cowers back.

“C— Caspar! Don’t hurt me! Linhardt’s not badly wounded, I promise! Most of the blood’s from that soldier. I— I tried to help Linhardt. I mean, he helped me, so... But I don’t know if I—!

Linhardt makes a muffled noise. His hand clenches tighter in his uniform, and his voice sounds light and breathless.

“You did fine, Bernadetta. I’m just— a bit dizzy—” 

He curls inward on himself, still breathing deeply, staring down at the floor. His face is expressionless, but there’s panic in his eyes.

Caspar’s heart floods with guilt again. This is Caspar’s fault. He knows exactly why Linhardt gets like this at the sight of blood— _that_ was Caspar’s fault too. And Caspar _still_ let this happen. He drops to his knees in front of Linhardt.

A quick glance around. Bernadetta’s still standing there, watching, and so is Petra. It’s a bit embarrassing, doing this with other people around, but, well…

“Linhardt,” Caspar says, as quietly as he can manage. “Hey, it’s alright. Close your eyes.”

Linhardt’s eyes flicker shut. Caspar pulls off his gauntlets, then reaches over to take one of Linhardt’s hands in his own. He starts talking, says the words he’s heard so many times before, describing a clear sky and a gentle breeze and a hand reaching out to someone who would become a lifelong friend. He’s not as good at calming Linhardt down as Linhardt is with him. But Caspar does his best.

With his free hand, Caspar rips a piece of padding from one of his gauntlets and uses the soft cloth to carefully wipe the blood off of Linhardt’s face and neck. Linhardt flinches at the first touch, breath stuttering. But he keeps his eyes shut. The dried and caked blood comes off almost too easily from Linhardt’s skin. However, the red stains on his clothes aren’t so easy to dismiss. He'll have to wait until they’re back at the monastery to wash those out.

Soon, Ashe and Byleth catch up, the former panting from the exertion while the latter looks unfazed. Catherine, Dorothea, and Edelgard then walk in from the other direction, fog swirling around them. The two adults begin a hurried discussion about the state of the battle. Ferdinand stumbles in a minute or two later, accompanied by Hubert. The mismatched duo seems to have devolved from their heated argument into silently glowering at each other.

Caspar gets most of the blood off of Linhardt’s skin. He rocks back on his knees and places a hand on Linhardt’s shoulder, letting some of his concern leak into his voice.

“What happened, anyways?”

Bernadetta’s the one who answers. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, it’s all my fault, I was careless and one of my arrows missed an enemy swordsman that I was supposed to finish off, and I panicked! The enemy was coming right for me, and I just—! I’m so useless!”

Bernadetta trails off and cowers back, so Catherine continues the explanation. She jabs a finger in Bernadetta’s direction.

“This girl with the messy hair was in trouble and everyone else was busy. Best option was to tell him— his name’s Linhardt, right?— to grab a lance from the soldier boy and attack the swordsman. He did. Then he collapsed right afterwards. I left this girl here with him and took the other two with me to clear the area. Still haven’t gotten through all this fog— thought I’d come back and get him after he’d calmed down a bit.”

That whole explanation sounds reasonable, given that Catherine couldn’t have known about Linhardt. Yet Caspar can’t help but feel a surge of anger. 

“Linhardt’s a healer,” Caspar says through gritted teeth. “He shouldn’t have had to fight.”

The look in Catherine’s eyes gets sharper somehow. She frowns.

“This is a real battle, kid. No one has the luxury of choosing not to fight. Soldiers like us are meant to pick something to believe in, then fight for it ‘till our dying breaths. No hesitation. That’s the only way to survive.”

Caspar lets out a breath. He knows that’s true for him, but what about for Linhardt? There’s something wrong with that statement, but Caspar just can’t put a finger on it. He turns back to Linhardt.

“You’re fine?”

Linhardt lets a faint smile grace his wan expression. 

“I will be. Just give me another few moments to rest.”

A sly grin suddenly blooms on Catherine’s face.

“Oh, I get it. He’s your soulmate, isn’t he?”

Caspar flushes and sputters something unintelligible as Catherine chuckles good-naturedly. 

“Well, I guess that explains everything,” Catherine says, a hand on her hip, her smile still lingering.

“Congrats on finding each other. It’s pretty rare to find your soulmate so early— heck, _I_ haven’t even found my soulmate yet. Thought I knew who it was, but it turns out she already had a soulmate of her own, and it wasn’t me. Guess I’ve got to keep looking. Don't know how long it'll take to find someone else with deep purple eyes.”

Byleth speaks up. “Let’s get back on topic, please. We need to find whoever’s controlling this fog and eliminate them. Have any of you encountered a mage among the enemies?”

“Yes,” Hubert says somewhat angrily. “This irritant in ora— I mean, this _absolute fool_ — was almost killed by one.”

“I was _not_ ,” Ferdinand counters. “I was, and am still, only mildly injured. But we did encounter a mage in the woods to the north, Professor.”

“The magic in the fog does seem stronger in that direction,” Linhardt adds.

Byleth and Catherine nod at each other. 

“Alright,” Byleth says. “Ferdinand, wait here with Linhardt until he feels well enough to heal you. Edelgard, take Dorothea and Petra and split off to the northwest. Everyone else, with me to the northeast. We’ll fan out and remove the source of the fog.”

Caspar’s torn. He finally has a chance to join the battle, to feel the thrill of the fight coursing through his veins. Besides, Linhardt’s doing fine. 

Yet he made a promise to protect Linhardt, didn’t he? Shouldn’t he request to stay back?

Linhardt seems to notice his confusion.

“Go on, Caspar. I’m not entirely helpless.” The panic is gone from his eyes, although he’s still doing his best not to look down, where he’d be able to see his bloodstained uniform.

Caspar hesitates, opens his mouth to respond.

Linhardt cuts him off with a sharp laugh. “I don’t need you for _everything_ , Caspar.”

Caspar winces, and Linhardt sighs. 

“I said I’ll be fine, and I will. I’m just going to take a nap. I’ll feel better afterwards. You know that’s how it is for me. Go.”

Caspar nods and hurries to catch up with the Professor.

* * *

It doesn’t take them long to find the mage, who Hubert eliminates with a muttered string of quiet curses. The fog dissipates immediately, revealing narrow plains littered with patches of forest.

Ashe walks over to the fallen mage’s corpse with a haunted look on his face. No one stops him as he peels off the mask. Tendrils of darkness from Hubert’s miasma have eaten through the mage’s features, but there is enough left to reveal a young woman with violet-black hair, indigo eyes glazed open, who was maybe in her late 20s. Ashe pales and staggers back.

“Natalie! I— she's— Christophe’s friend from ages ago— I think they even attended the Academy together. I’ve only met her a few times, but… we killed her. We _killed_ her!? Professor, why—” 

Ashe stops talking, overcome. He’s hunched over, but straightens a bit when Professor Byleth puts a hand on his shoulder. Eyes downcast, he turns away from the corpse and begins walking north. The Professor accompanies him, a silent support.

Caspar’s standing the closest to Catherine, so he’s the only one who notices that Catherine freezes momentarily, an expression of pure shock on her face, when Ashe says the mage's name. As Ashe leaves, Catherine walks past and peers down to view the dark mage’s uncovered head. A complicated series of expressions play out across Catherine’s face. Then she turns, shoulders stiff, and follows to the north.

Now that Caspar can see that the coast is clear, he moves over to walk beside Bernadetta. The timid girl notices, then squeaks and flails her arms as she instinctively tries to run. Caspar, surprised, grabs her hand to keep her from escaping.

“Hey. Bernadetta, calm down! I just wanted to say thanks.”

Bernadetta gasps, and stares at Caspar blankly for less than half a second, surprise evident on her face. Caspar supposes that she’s not used to being touched. Then she responds, her voice shrill and laced with terror. 

“You want to thank me?! Oh, I know, this is the kind of trap where you start with a compliment to put me off guard and then go in for the kill, isn’t it? I— I haven’t done anything! Don’t attack me, I’ll go away, I promise!”

Caspar drops her hand and steps back, confused.

“I don’t— hey, quit it, I’m honestly trying to thank you, Bernadetta! You helped Linhardt out back there. He would have been way worse if someone hadn’t been talking to him the whole time, so... I just wanted to say that that was nice of you. Thanks.”

At Caspar’s words, Bernadetta calms down a bit and turns her gaze to the grass below. “I— I had to repay him. He helped me out of a terrible situation before, when we were younger. I was being threatened and forced to marry him, but neither of us wanted to, and I broke down in front of him and he told me...”

“Wait, wait, wait. I’ve heard this story,” Caspar says as realization strikes. “You mean, the girl who forced Lin to finally tell everyone about his colors— that was _you_?!”

Bernadetta nods, and retreats behind her bow again. “I’m sorry! I know he was forced to do it to help me— I’m so pathetic, I couldn’t get myself out of—”

Caspar’s grinning as he interrupts her. 

“No, you’ve got it all wrong— I’m _glad_ he did that, Bernadetta! I’ve got to thank you for that as well! I’d been trying to convince him to spill for _years_. Because of you, he finally did it!”

Caspar pats Bernadetta on the shoulder, and is pleased to see that she doesn’t shrink away as much. She even offers him a tentative smile as he walks past her to the front lines.

* * *

“You!” growls a thundering voice from a ruined fortress just up ahead. Ashe turns at the voice, a desperate look on his face, but the aged cavalier who stands resolute in that fortress isn’t looking towards Ashe at all. Instead, his face is twisted in a mask of rage as he glares at Catherine. Caspar realizes in a flash that this old man is Lonato.

“I will be the one to kill you, no other!”

Catherine exhales sharply, then swings out her sword, Thunderbrand. Its glowing edge comes to a stop pointed right at Lonato.

“You want to fight me?” Catherine shouts. “So be it! I’ll send you to meet your goddess!”

She darts forward. Immediately, three axemen standing guard for Lonato run out to block her path. 

“Target the infantry!” Byleth calls out, already in motion. “Close in on the fortress!”

Caspar runs up to the closest fighter, arms held up to guard his chest and head. He ducks under the axe blade’s swing and jabs the fighter in the stomach, then pivots and punches again, hitting his foe square in the jaw. A crack resounds. The fighter’s not down yet, until Hubert makes a gesture and the enemy dissolves into darkness. Byleth falls back to hold off the other two axemen, as do Hubert and Bernadetta. They look like they can handle it, so Caspar takes off, sprinting to the fortress, converging on it from the southwest as Catherine approaches from the west. Only Ashe, who ran the whole time without pausing to fight anyone, is closer to Lonato than Caspar is.

Ashe comes to a stop just outside the western entrance to the small fortress. He nocks an arrow in his bow and aims at his adoptive father with shaking arms.

“Lonato!” Ashe cries, despairing. “Why are you doing this? Please, just surrender! We can talk this out!”

“Stand down, Ashe.” Lonato growls, lance at the ready. He’s looking past Ashe at Thunderbrand’s glowing blade. “Rhea is an infidel who has deceived the people and desecrated the goddess. I must destroy these evil-doers by any means necessary.”

Ashe draws his bow tighter. “Even if that’s true, why would you involve the townsfolk? Lonato, please, this isn’t right!”

Caspar keeps running. He’s almost there. Catherine is just a few steps behind him.

“Shoot, Ashe!” Catherine shouts as she runs. “Either that, or step aside. I won’t allow anyone to get in my way!”

Lonato finally turns his focus away from the bright glow of Thunderbrand to look at Ashe.

“Ashe. Stand down. You should not be here.” Then, quieter, he says, “I sent you away, Ashe. You, at least, should have been safe.”

Ashe’s face is turned away from Caspar, but they can all hear him sob, once. He lowers his bow and stands still, hesitating. Caspar thinks for a second that he’s going to do the sensible thing and move away. 

Instead, Ashe spins to face Catherine. Weaponless, he stands in front of the narrow side entrance to the fortress where Lonato waits. He’s blocking Catherine’s path to the aged cavalier.

“Catherine! Please don’t do this! We can still talk this out!”

Catherine’s gaze hardens. She picks up the pace.

“This is my last warning, Ashe! If you don’t step aside right this moment, I _will_ cut you down!”

Ashe gulps and holds his arms out to his sides, waiting. He closes his eyes. He’s made his choice.

And Caspar just can’t take this anymore. Why is Ashe doing so much for someone like Lonato, who would drag innocent people into a war with the Church? Ashe is Caspar’s _friend_. Caspar can’t let him die here for something like this. He wants to scream that this isn’t justice, because the bad guy is _right there_ but Ashe is defending him, but Ashe is not a bad guy at all so there must be something wrong with everything, and—

It’s too hard to comprehend. Right and wrong are on different sides, but which is which? 

Caspar only knows one thing for sure. He remembers all the times he's talked with Catherine about their morals; he _knows_ that Catherine would kill if she had to. And Caspar can’t let Catherine hurt Ashe.

So Caspar runs up to Ashe and shoves him aside. Ashe gasps as he’s thrown away from the entrance. Almost in slow motion, the two boys turn to watch as Catherine sprints past Ashe, takes the steps to the fortress three at a time, leaps into the air, and swings her sword down at Lonato.

Ashe shouts wordlessly and fumbles with his bow. Caspar dashes for the steps. But they’re both too late. Thunderbrand flashes— once, twice, and then another two times, interspersed with wild swings of Lonato’s lance that Catherine easily dodges. Lonato tumbles from his horse, armored form thudding to the stone floor of the fortress.

Only Ashe, Catherine, and Caspar are close enough to hear him whisper, “Christophe… Forgive me,” before he falls still.

There is a moment of silence. Catherine lowers Thunderbrand and turns away from the corpse.

Then Ashe screams, dropping to his knees on the rubble. “Lonato! I—” Unable to find the words to continue, he cries silently, hunched by the walls of the fortress. His shoulders shake with the force of his sobs.

“I never thought I’d see Lonato meet this fate,” Catherine observes.

Then the swordswoman’s expression toughens again. A mix of sorrow and cold authority washes across her face as she strides over to Ashe.

“You sided with enemies of the Church,” she says quietly.

Caspar’s hairs stand on edge. He steps between Ashe and Catherine, raises his hands in a pleading gesture. “Wait! He didn’t mean to! He was just—”

Catherine holds up a hand and Caspar falls silent. The swordswoman smiles, somewhat ruefully.

“I know. I… understand. I’ll pretend I didn’t see that, Ashe. Return to the monastery with the Professor. Stay out of trouble. Got it?”

Ashe nods shakily, gaze still locked to the floor.

Catherine takes a deep breath. “Your brother… Christophe… he—” She pauses, then shrugs and turns away. “Never mind. See you.”

She calls her soldiers to her side and leaves.

Ashe finally looks up from where he’s kneeling. His voice comes out sounding lifeless.

“I… have to go check on my younger brother and sister.”

Caspar holds out a hand and pulls him to his feet. “Do you want any of us to come with you?”

“I think I’ll be fine. Tell the Professor where I’ve gone, okay? I’ll meet up with all of you again at the convoy.”

He takes a few steps towards the town, then stops.

“Caspar?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve always been able to see dark green. Forest green. The trees around here always looked so pretty to me— I used to visit as a child to stare at the plants. That was mostly before I started living with... But even afterwards...”

Ashe trails off, and doesn’t continue, or even move.

“Hey,” Caspar says, worried, after a full minute of silence. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Ashe takes a deep breath. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just…”

He casts a glance at the fortress where Lonato’s corpse still lies.

“I just don’t think I’ll be able to visit here anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changing circumstances have been siphoning away large quantities of my time. Stay safe out there, everyone!
> 
> Modifications to Canon:
> 
> I’ve moved Catherine and Caspar’s support conversation up a few chapters so that Catherine can get some backstory in the only chapter she’ll probably show up in in this fic. If I ever write side stories, I’ll get into more detail about her and her soulmate, but that won’t be for a while.
> 
> I force Ashe to kill Lonato on every one of my playthroughs because I’m sadistic like that. But in the actual storyline, it doesn’t make much sense. Ashe has lived with Lonato for years. Lonato saved his and his siblings’ lives, and Ashe wants nothing more than to be like Lonato. There’s no way Ashe would side with the Church and the school he’s been at for like 2 months, over his beloved adoptive father. And there’s no way Catherine would just stand there when Rhea has commanded her to suppress the rebellion. So this chapter is how I see it happening.
> 
> Natalie is an OC I made up to serve multiple purposes— a dark mage strong enough to double Ferdinand and control the fog, as well as an old classmate of Catherine and Christophe, and Christophe's soulmate.
> 
> FE:3H Strategy Notes: 
> 
> Since betrayal isn’t actually a thing in FE:3H, I stole the game mechanics for it from FE10, Radiant Dawn, where units can actually defect from your army if you force them to fight the people they love. This means Ashe actually became an enemy unit for two turns. It’s also why Ashe could block Catherine’s movement, but Caspar could still Shove (Fighter class mastery skill) Ashe out of the way. Ashe could have gotten back into place with Swap (Myrmidon class mastery skill), but alas, he doesn’t have that. Should have been a swordsman, Ashe.
> 
> Linhardt isn’t lying about feeling better after he takes a nap. He does actually heal himself by sleeping, because of his personal skill, Catnap, which restores up to 10% HP per turn if he doesn’t take an action.
> 
> The mage missed Ferdinand because standing in dense forest gives you +40 avoid, and Ferdinand gets an extra +15 avoid at full HP from his personal skill, Confidence. This means Ferdinand jumping in front of the mage was actually a good idea, as Edelgard would have had a higher chance of dying. This also means he actually did bet his life on the fact that he was better than Edelgard.
> 
> Colors-verse Notes:
> 
> Shamir/Catherine is now part of this universe. So is Ashe/Dedue. I love Ashe/Dedue in particular because one of the things they bond over is gardening and _both of them have green eyes_ (although of different shades). It fits the colors-verse perfectly.
> 
> Hubert can’t call Ferdinand “the irritant in orange” out loud, because that would reveal what color Hubert can see. And as you’ll see next chapter, Hubert is not going to do that.
> 
> Stay tuned for the next chapter(s), in which we follow Ferdinand as he bakes cookies, acts noble, and does other Ferdinand-ish things, while everyone works together to uncover sinister plots. Thanks for reading!


	8. Perseverance [Ferdinand]

It’s the middle of the night, and the mess hall is completely empty. Ferdinand lets out a sigh as he drops an armful of culinary paraphernalia onto the kitchen countertop, then lights the torches on the walls with a flint. With that done, he steps behind the counter and flips through the little green recipe book he borrowed from Mercedes, titled “Oscar’s Guide to Crimean Cooking.” He’s not sure what “Crimean Cooking” even is, but Mercedes had promised him that the recipe for pastries contained within was of the highest quality.

The instructions indicate that one normally starts by lighting the flames in the oven and mixing together the dry ingredients in a bowl. Ferdinand obliges, and even sings quietly as he works. In the empty hall, his quiet singing rises over both the crackle of the oven fire and the quiet clink of his metal spoon on the wooden bowl.

Eventually, he finds himself singing one of his favorites. “...How the crimson rain of pain it came, falling hard upon a land aflame. When the sacred blade—“

“I believe the kitchen is off-limits to students at night,” interrupts a familiar, sinister voice.

Ferdinand jumps and lets out a yelp that’s just a bit less dignified than he would like to admit. A puff of sugar and flour escapes his bowl to dust his loose silk nightshirt.

“Hubert?! What are you doing here?”

The mage stalks in, a few books gripped tight under one spindly arm. His figure cuts an imposing shadow between the firelight inside and the moonlight outside. He takes a seat at the mess hall table closest to the ovens, deliberately outside the kitchen area so that he can’t be accused of breaking any rules.

“While returning from the library, I noticed lights in the kitchen. I wondered if some audacious student might be attempting to steal food at night. Turns out it’s just you. What a disappointment.”

Hubert begins setting out parchment and an inkstand on the mess hall table, preparing to take notes on the books he’s brought with him. Ferdinand blinks, surprised. Is Hubert planning on staying here in the mess hall? Why?

The surprise soon turns to irritation at the thought of Hubert’s constant insults following him even here. He decides to just ignore Hubert. Nevertheless, it takes a surprising amount of concentration to focus on the recipe with the dark mage sitting in front of him. Next step is to mix the dry and wet ingredients. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?

Hubert smirks, as if privy to Ferdinand’s inner turmoil. 

“In any case, von Aegir, you’ve yet to explain why you’re behind the kitchen counter. I’ve heard it’s considered... _ignoble_ to break the rules. I would never have imagined that the future Prime Minister would do something so _rebellious_ as stealing food. And whatever for? Did the dining hall forget to serve your favorite delicacy at lunch?”

Ferdinand scowls at the insinuations. Out of everyone that could have come across him tonight, why does it have to be this particular, infuriating mage with nary a thought of his own, whose vocabulary consists mostly of Edelgard’s name and various threats? Something about this man never fails to rile Ferdinand up.

Ferdinand jabs his batter-covered whisk in Hubert’s direction, a not-very-subtle sign of his annoyance. Curses. The mage isn’t even looking at him.

“I would have you know, _von Vestra_ , that all of these ingredients are my own, and that I have obtained permission to be here. I did extra chores for the Head Chef yesterday so that I would be granted use of the ovens at night.”

“I see.” 

And then Hubert just lets the matter drop. What? Why would he interrogate and insult Ferdinand so, just to let him go so quickly in the end? And why is he _still here_?

Hubert’s dry voice picks up again. “What are you cooking?”

Ferdinand finishes mixing and starts forming small flattened spheres of dough to place on the pan. The book doesn’t specify how big they’re supposed to be, so he makes them the size of his fist.

“I’m baking pastries.” Noa fruit pastries, to be precise. But that’s only because Ferdinand likes their color— pale yellow, with a tinge of green.

“Pastries? Why?” Hubert finally looks up at Ferdinand. “The mess hall serves pastries every day. If those aren’t to your liking, you could put in a request and I’m sure they’d oblige.”

“That is not the point.”

“I can’t imagine what is. Enlighten me. Or have I stumbled upon your secret hobby?”

“No, nothing like that,” Ferdinand says. He wipes his hands dry to flip the pages of his recipe book. Can he put the pan in the oven now? Wait. He forgot to add eggs. He smooshes all the dough spheres back into the mixing bowl. Better late than never, right?

“These pastries are meant to solve a riddle,” Ferdinand continues. “One that Dorothea posed me earlier this month.”

This seems to actually throw Hubert for a loop. 

“What riddle could possibly be solved by baking pastries?”

“Dorothea said… I was like a bee.”

Ferdinand can clearly see Hubert’s surprise. That’s twice in one day he’s managed to throw Hubert off guard. It’s a small victory, but he’ll take what he can get. 

“A bee?” Hubert asks, a quizzical tilt to his one visible eyebrow.

“Yes. I initially assumed she might have meant that I am diligent and hardworking—”

“Nonsense,” Hubert drawls. “She clearly meant that you are importunate and annoying, buzzing around the academy with nary a thought in your head, your only purpose to disrupt the peace and quiet.”

Ferdinand unconsciously uses a little too much force on the egg he’s cracking and it hits the side of the bowl, splattering onto the table. He sighs and begins cleaning it up.

How does Hubert always know what to say to rouse anger? Ferdinand detests that trait of his. If Hubert had let him finish the sentence, Ferdinand would have clarified that he _knows_ Dorothea wasn’t noting his diligence. The only thing that seems to make sense is that she was commenting on how his fortune comes not from his own work, but from an inheritance, like a bee inherits a wealth of honey from its predecessors. Thus this small experiment in creating something all on his own.

He forms the dough spheres again and slaps them onto the pan.

“Make the circles of dough smaller,” Hubert comments offhand. “They’ll expand when you bake them.”

Ferdinand opens his mouth to argue, but subsides before he can begin. Stop and think, Ferdinand. It’s what the soldiers he trained with used to tell him.

Truthfully, he doesn’t have any experience with baking at all. It can’t hurt to listen to Hubert— just because Hubert annoys him, doesn’t mean his advice is incorrect. He finishes reforming the spheres, smaller, then sticks the pan in the oven. Now he just has to wait.

This would all be worth it if only he could see Dorothea’s eyes fill with anything other than disgust at the sight of him. 

Ferdinand has always loved the opera. He’s been attending Dorothea’s performances for almost five years now— ever since she took over Manuela’s role as the star of the Mittelfrank opera company. Manuela was amazing, of course, and will forever hold a place of honor in Ferdinand’s heart. But Dorothea’s talent was, and still is, undeniable. Ferdinand is a huge fan of Dorothea’s, and he’d been ecstatic to hear that she would be attending the Officer’s Academy at the same time as him.

That day, their first day in class… It hurt to have someone he admires so much dismiss him on sight. Especially as he still can’t comprehend exactly _why_ Dorothea hates him so much. 

She’s not his soulmate either. He used to fantasize about that, watching her on stage. In fact, Dorothea reminds him of a girl he saw once but never met again— the girl that Ferdinand still thinks might be his soulmate. But now that Ferdinand has seen Dorothea up close, he knows for sure that her eyes aren’t yellow— aren’t the shade that Ferdinand can see.

He doesn’t know what compels him to bring the topic up with current company, but he feels the need to do something while the pastries are in the oven, and it’s the first topic of conversation that comes to mind.

“Hubert? Have you found your soulmate yet?”

Hubert hesitates a second too long before answering. 

“No. I have not.”

Ferdinand sighs and leans back against the counter.

“I have not found mine either,” Ferdinand admits. “What color can you see? I have been told I can see a rather uncommon shade of yellow. It is not the rarest color, but it is certainly up there. I would imagine my soulmate is an incredible person to match my— is something wrong, Hubert?”

The sound of a snap has just issued from Hubert’s direction. Ferdinand turns to see that Hubert’s quill is now broken in two neat pieces, clenched in Hubert’s fist. The dark mage recovers quickly, pulling a spare quill from his robes and blotting out the drops of spilled ink.

How strange. 

An odd sense of foreboding wraps around Ferdinand and whistles through him, like a cold wind. Ferdinand shivers.

“Come to think of it…” Ferdinand says slowly. He’s speaking his thoughts aloud before he can fully process them, as if he needs to get them out of his head before they explode. The sense of foreboding grows, and Ferdinand feels the strangeness blow through him like a gale whipping about the room.

“The color I can see is remarkably similar to the color of _your_ eyes, Hubert.”

There’s a moment of silence. The feeling in Ferdinand builds to a crescendo. It seems to Ferdinand that the room is filled with howling storm, tearing at his mind and soul, and he starts to think that maybe...

“Dark blue,” Hubert snaps.

Ferdinand jolts. “What?”

“You asked which color I can see. Dark blue. The color of the sky late in the evening. Or the ocean.”

Ferdinand’s sense of foreboding pops like a bubble, and the winds fade away in an instant. Blue. He’s been told his eyes are orange. Blue isn’t even close to orange, is it— in fact, he seems to recall that it’s on the opposite end of the spectrum.

“Oh,” Ferdinand says, pasting a smile on his face to cover the fact that he’s still shivering slightly. “Well. What a coincidence that I can see the color of your eyes, then. I mean, the eye that you are not perpetually covering with your hair. I am not sure why you do that, to be honest. Does it not affect your depth perception?”

Ferdinand is aware that he’s rambling. “You... don’t happen to have any sisters or cousins with the same—“

“I do not,” Hubert says. He sounds like he’s speaking through gritted teeth, but Ferdinand isn’t listening anymore because…

“Ah, I forgot to take the pastries out of the oven!”

It doesn’t look like they’re burned too badly. If he can just get the pan out quickly, the pastries could still be salvageable. He reaches for the handle—

“Ferdinand! Don’t—”

Too late. A searing pain rips up Ferdinand’s left arm as his hand comes into contact with the burning metal. He screams and yanks his hand away, hitting the countertop and falling to his knees beside the oven. Dimly, he can hear Hubert cursing at him. He clutches his arm to his chest, gasping at the pain and at the sight of his blistered hand.

“You absolutely idiotic— here, drink this.”

Hubert, for some reason, stops a few feet away from him and tosses the vulnerary to his uninjured hand, instead of just giving it to him. Ferdinand almost chuckles despite the pain— he’s usually the one handing out vulneraries to injured people. To his friend Iri when he was younger, and to the Black Eagles now. It’s strange to be on the receiving end of the sentiment.

He tries bending his fingers and hisses as he stretches raw skin.

Really, he’s had far worse injuries on the battlefield. This one only feels bad because he wasn’t expecting it. And the vulnerary does help.

“Thank you, Hubert.”

“You… are welcome. Get that looked at once the infirmary opens tomorrow morning.”

“I will.” Ferdinand removes the pastries from the oven using a thick cloth wrapped around his other hand. He sighs. The pastries seem to have expanded much more than he’d have imagined, and they’re also burnt. He’s sure Dorothea wouldn’t appreciate this blackened mess.

“I suppose I will have to try again!” Ferdinand turns to Hubert, an idea forming. “You seem to have experience with this, Hubert. Would you like to help me?”

But Hubert has already started packing away his notes and other stationery. “No. I… have an appointment to attend.”

“This late at night?”

“...Yes.” He tucks his books back under his arm and stalks to the south exit. “Farewell, von Aegir.”

A meeting this late? Hubert must be quite busy. Which makes this whole episode all the more confusing! Why did Hubert stay in the mess hall for so long at this time of night? After he’d found that he was mistaken about there being a food thief in the kitchens, what in the mess hall could have held his attention? 

Ferdinand has no clue. He simply sighs and tries to put the dark mage out of his mind as he gets to work on a second batch of pastries.

Second time’s the charm! Right?

* * *

“An assassination attempt on Lady Rhea!?” Caspar shouts.

“Shhh! Not so loud!” Dorothea says, a finger to her lips. Caspar hushes, chastened.

“Sure, yeah, sorry. It’s just… Lonato was really planning that? I don’t want to believe he’d go that far...”

Ferdinand shakes his head derisively. “Lonato’s actions are an affront to nobles everywhere. To drag the commonfolk of his lands into a losing war against the Church— to plot something like this… he must be truly wicked. I hope that our fellow student Ashe does not share in that guilt.”

“Hey!” Caspar turns to glare at Ferdinand, a fist raised. “Take that back! Ashe is a good guy! And Lonato… I mean… I don’t know much about him, but if Ashe trusted him so much, he must’ve had a reason to...”

Ferdinand doesn’t back down. A true noble speaks his thoughts, concisely and with force, and is willing to admit when they are wrong. For now, about this, he knows he isn’t.

“By engaging in the war, Lonato had already broken the precepts required to be a noble. A true noble does not start needless fights. A true noble puts his people first! Lonato failed to do that.”

“And if he _did_ have a good reason for the fight?” interjects Linhardt, of all people.

Unsurprisingly, he yawns immediately afterwards. “Never mind. I’m too tired for this. Finish your tale, please, Professor, so I can return to my nap.”

“Thank you, Linhardt.” Professor Byleth says, with an audible tinge of annoyance directed at Caspar for having interrupted her in the first place.

“As you‘ve all just heard, we found this missive on Lonato’s person. It contains a detailed plan to assassinate Lady Rhea.”

“But why would he just… carry something like that around?” Dorothea asks. “Isn’t that a little too convenient?”

“Precisely.” There’s that voice again, that sinister voice that places Ferdinand on edge.

Although… that voice seems less annoying to him, somehow, after the help Hubert gave him that night in the kitchen. And after the concern Hubert showed when Ferdinand was injured in the battle last month. They had argued, and Hubert had been abrasive, but the incident in the kitchens seemed to indicate that Hubert really does mean well. Ferdinand may not agree with the dark mage’s methods, or with his blind loyalty to Edelgard’s every whim, but… perhaps they are, grudgingly, comrades in arms.

Ferdinand has lost track of the conversation. He tunes back in to hear Edelgard speaking.

“The Professor and I have discussed this, and we both agree.” She waves the scroll in the air. “This is a trap. Their real goal is somewhere else, and while everyone is occupied guarding Lady Rhea, they will accomplish their objective.”

“So what _is_ their objective?” Bernadetta asks from the edge of the group. “D— d— do you think… they want to kill _us_ because we know too much?!”

Dorothea places a calming hand on Bernadetta’s shoulder. 

“Of course not, Bernie! Whoever they are, targeting academy students probably isn’t high on their list. We’ll be just fine, don’t you worry!”

Ferdinand happens to be watching Edelgard at that moment and sees her stifle a laugh at Dorothea’s comment. Why?

“They’re not after anything in the library,” Linhardt notes drily. “While it certainly holds a vast amount of information, there isn’t anything that can’t be found anywhere else.”

“And the mess hall doesn’t have anything secret either, unless they’re really holding out on us at mealtimes,” Caspar says with a laugh.

Ferdinand gives it some thought. “The weaponry?”

Hubert shakes his head and Ferdinand resists the urge to scowl at him for dismissing his idea without giving him a chance to explain. He’s decided to be nice to Hubert, though, so he holds back his retorts.

“While the monastery’s weapons are indeed of the highest quality, they are not worth staging a fake assassination to obtain.”

Ferdinand accepts that explanation with a nod. Fair enough.

“What’s left?” says Bernadetta, mostly to herself. “The infirmary, the training grounds, the church, the stables, the gardens… it isn’t the gardens— they don’t even have any cute carnivorous plants, let alone anything else of value.”

Wait a minute— _cute_ carnivorous plants? Ferdinand can’t help but throw a glance at Bernadetta, but the girl’s daydreaming about something and doesn’t seem to notice him.

“I am being positive that enemies will not be looking for the training grounds,” Petra adds. “They are having nothing of importance there, am I correct? I am also feeling… like we are missing an important idea.”

Hubert nods. “I’d say we’re looking at this wrong. Perhaps we should not be considering what’s special about locations at the monastery. Instead, let’s consider what’s special about the planned day of attack— the day of the Goddess’ Rite of Rebirth.”

Dorothea gasps. “It’s the only day the Holy Mausoleum is opened to the public! Does that mean…”

“A wealth of relics, all potentially crest-related, available only at this particular monastery on this particular day. I’d say that’s a prize worth the effort.” Linhardt gets a strange gleam in his eyes as he says this.

“If that is the real location of attack, then we must fight to defend it!” Ferdinand says. He feels a lot more certain about this now that everyone seems to be agreeing on a target. A glance to the side tells him Caspar feels the same.

“Certainly. Don’t you agree, Professor?” Edelgard turns to look at Byleth with a smile, and even Ferdinand can see that they hold each other’s gazes for just a second too long. It’s like they’re… testing each other? Ferdinand isn’t sure.

Byleth breaks away from Edelgard’s gaze and turns to all of them.

“Correct. I wanted to see if you’d reach the same conclusion as Edelgard and I did. Now that you have, we can be reasonably certain that the Holy Mausoleum is indeed the real target. I’ll be speaking to Seteth about this, and requesting a reassignment. On the day of the ritual, we will assemble at the entrance to the Holy Mausoleum. I hope nothing will happen, but still, be ready for a fight. Anything to add, Edelgard?”

“Not at the moment, my teacher.”

“Good,” says Byleth, snapping her books shut. “Class dismissed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now Spring Break is over. Where did the time go?
> 
> FE:3H Notes:
> 
> The pastries that Ferdinand is baking are from his B support with Dorothea. He does actually canonically burn himself trying to bake them. I can sympathize— I’ve burned myself while cooking before. I’m not great at cooking, and I can assume orange boy isn’t either. 
> 
> Ferdinand is also canonically a huge fan of the opera, and he can also _sing_! And he’s actually pretty good at it! If you haven’t already, please, at some point, go watch Ferdinand and Manuela’s supports. The song he sings at the beginning of this chapter is from that support chain. Ferdinand is a fanboy and it’s adorable.
> 
> Colors-verse notes:
> 
> As you may have noticed, Hubert is straight up lying to Ferdinand about being able to see blue. Hubert chose blue because he knows to some extent what objects are dark blue after hearing Edelgard speak about it often when they were children. Out of the two colors Edelgard could see, she always liked dark blue better.
> 
> Shamir, though, was not lying to Catherine when she said Catherine wasn’t her soulmate. Shamir really did have another soulmate who died a long time ago, and Shamir can only see gray now. Catherine and Shamir’s circumstances are similar to someone else we’ll see in a few chapters, so I’ll hold off on the explanation until then.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Stick around for the Black Eagles’ assault on the attackers of the Holy Mausoleum, with a special guest appearance by a student from another House!


	9. Determination [Ferdinand]

Ferdinand turns around in his chair in the Black Eagles classroom. Someone just tapped him on the shoulder. It’s Dorothea, and she is, for once, smiling at him.

“Here. A return gift.”

She hands him a small package, which Ferdinand opens to find a muffin, clearly store bought. They’re not his favorite, but he appreciates the thought. Dorothea Arnault, the famous songstress herself, is giving him a gift— he _really_ appreciates the thought.

He doesn’t know what to say.

“A simple ‘Thank you’ would be nice.” Dorothea’s smile has turned into more of a smirk now.

Ferdinand recovers quickly. 

“You are right, of course. Thank you!”

“You’re welcome.”

And Dorothea saunters back to her seat to begin a joyful conversation with Petra.

Professor Byleth scolds him later for failing to pay attention during class that day, and Ferdinand catches Hubert glowering at him more than once. He doesn’t care. Dorothea gave him a gift! It’s extraordinary.

If only she had yellow eyes. Like Hubert does, for some strange reason.

If only she was his soulmate.

* * *

The Rite of Rebirth ceremony has already started elsewhere, but nothing seems to be happening here at the entrance to the Holy Mausoleum. Ferdinand resists the temptation to shuffle his feet. He knows it’s a bad habit— he’d seen Hubert glaring at him when he shuffled his feet during the practice battle two months ago. Ever since, he’s been trying not to, if only so he can retain the behavioral high ground when compared to the vampiric mage.

An unfamiliar, short, pale-haired girl strides in front of him. An intruder! He’s about to lower his lance at her until he recognizes the uniform. In any case, before he can react, the girl brushes past him without acknowledging him at all. 

This is, in Ferdinand’s expert opinion, rather rude of her.

Edelgard, who had been standing guard next to Ferdinand, blinks in surprise.

“Lysithea?”

Lysithea slows down to acknowledge her with a quick nod and a mumbled “Edelgard,” then continues on her way towards the Professor.

Unfortunately for Lysithea, the sound of her name wakes Linhardt, who had been taking a nap leaning on the wall beside Ferdinand. That strange glint shows up in the healer’s eyes again as he spots the young dark mage— the same glint he’d gotten when he talked about crest relics earlier. Ferdinand finally recognizes that glint. It’s the look he himself gets when he sees an interesting new weapon to add to his weapons collection.

“Lysithea!” Linhardt says, sliding off the wall to intercept the younger mage. “Fancy meeting you here. Might you be willing to answer a few questions—”

“Not again! Move it, Linhardt. I don’t have time for this.” The scowl on Lysithea’s face is unmistakable as she pushes past Linhardt.

Linhardt grins, actually grins. Ferdinand doesn’t think he’s seen that expression on his face before, and it’s… sort of worrisome.

“There’s always time for research, Lysithea. Now, if you wouldn’t mind: do you think your circumstances have affected your soulmate bond, or the color you can see?”

Lysithea’s eyes are narrowed, irritation suffusing her slight form. Her fists are clenched as she bites out, “I haven’t found my soulmate yet, so I don’t know. I can see orange, sort of similar to that guy’s hair and eyes.”

Here, she jerks a thumb at Ferdinand, who startles. Lysithea can see his color? Her eyes aren’t yellow, though, so she’s not his soulmate. And why is Linhardt interrogating her anyways? 

Ferdinand only feels more puzzled as he hears Edelgard mutter, “She can only see one color...”

Lysithea crosses her arms, scowl deepening as she glares at Linhardt. “There. Happy? Now cease your inane questions! I’m tired of being accosted in the hallways so you can ply me with exceedingly insensitive commentary on my personal circumstances!”

Linhardt ignores the rebuke completely, and Lysithea’s ire grows.

“This is the last time I’ll warn you, Linhardt—”

“Interesting,” Linhardt says, cutting her off. “So how does it feel when you cast a spell that activates—”

Lysithea lets out a shout of frustration and shoves Linhardt bodily backwards. She’s not very strong, but Linhardt isn’t prepared for it at all and almost falls over, though he manages to convert his momentum into a stumble backwards at the last second. Unfortunately for him, the corridor is narrow, and Ferdinand can hear the thump as the back of his head bangs against a sharp corner on the carved stone wall. Linhardt gasps in pain and brings a hand up to feel the back of his skull. It comes away with a few drops of blood. Lysithea’s eyes widen and she looks apologetic as Linhardt’s expression goes blank— the sight of blood on his hands causing him to gulp and breathe deeply, stilling himself.

Ferdinand takes a quick glance around. Caspar’s not here to help, but almost all of the Black Eagles now know about Linhardt’s aversion to blood. Ferdinand hands Linhardt one of his monogrammed silk handkerchiefs and a vulnerary. He’s starting to really appreciate the soldiers’ advice to keep a stock of vulneraries on hand at all times. 

“Thanks,” Linhardt says weakly as he wipes the blood from his fingers without looking at it. Ferdinand takes back the bloody handkerchief without complaint.

Lysithea’s hands relax from where they were clenched into fists. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. It’s just—”

Meanwhile, the commotion has caught Byleth’s attention, and the professor makes her way over to them.

“You’re from the Golden Deer, aren’t you?” Byleth asks, her arms crossed. “What brings you here? And are you alright, Linhardt?”

Lysithea, looking ashamed, opens her mouth to speak, but she’s interrupted before she can begin.

“I’m fine, Professor,” Linhardt says. “Lysithea and I were just talking. I tripped.”

Ferdinand wonders why Linhardt bothered to cover for Lysithea. The flash of confusion that crosses Lysithea’s face indicates that she has no clue either, but she rolls with it, moving on to her main point.

“Professor Byleth, it’s nice to formally meet you. I enjoyed the lecture on mercenary tactics you gave to the Golden Deer house last week.”

“Thank you. Still, that doesn’t explain why you’re here at the Holy Mausoleum.” Byleth points out, one delicate eyebrow raised. “The Golden Deer and Blue Lions have been assigned to guard Lady Rhea during this event.”

“Yes, but Claude and Professor Hanneman gave me permission to come here instead.”

“Why?”

Lysithea sighs. “Earlier this week, someone let it slip that at Magdred Way, your class uncovered a plan to assassinate the archbishop. Claude, Hilda, and I thought that it was a bit strange for the Western Church to be nonchalantly carrying around secret letters. We thought it might be a decoy. I don’t know exactly why, but Claude figured the real target was here, and a little more asking around told us that your class had already been assigned to this location. Seteth wasn’t willing to let all the Golden Deer transfer here, but he said we could send one person, if we wanted.”

“So they sent you.” Edelgard says. Ferdinand can’t read her complicated expression as she gazes at the young mage. “Why you?”

Lysithea rolls her eyes. “Marianne, Lorenz, and Ignatz decided they’d rather keep guarding Lady Rhea, Leonie wanted to stay with her precious Captain Jeralt, Claude couldn’t leave because he’s the house leader, and Hilda said it was too much work. So it was between me and Raphael. Claude chose me.”

“I see.”

“In short, I’m here to help you fight, Professor Byleth. What’s the plan?”

Professor Byleth frowns. “Lysithea… I hate to say it, but I’m hesitant to allow you into battle when I don’t know your abilities. I don’t mean to offend you, Lysithea— I just don’t have the confidence that I can keep you safe when I don’t have enough information.”

Lysithea leans forward, urgent, “But, Professor, I can—”

“I’m sorry, Lysithea, but I’m going to have to ask you to sit this out.”

Lysithea bites her lip and mumbles something that ends with, “...treating me like a child.” Louder, she retorts, “I can keep _myself_ safe, thanks. Just let me fight.”

Linhardt, for some reason, speaks up. “Professor, I can vouch for her skills. She’s a powerful dark mage.”

Edelgard nods slowly. Her eyes don’t leave Lysithea. “Please allow her to fight, Professor.”

Ferdinand notices for the first time that Edelgard and Lysithea have exactly the same pale shade of hair. It’s not light yellow, the color Ferdinand can see. He knows what that would look like— Ferdinand still remembers that his mother had pale yellow hair. Edelgard and Lysithea's hair looks distinct because it’s a lot lighter than everyone else’s, even lighter than his mom's used to be. It's strange, especially since he hasn’t seen hair that light on anyone else before.

But maybe he’s just missing something because he can’t see the full spectrum yet. Ferdinand allows himself a sigh. What will it take to find his soulmate, so he can finally grasp true perfection?

Byleth shoots a glance at Edelgard, and whatever the professor sees in Edelgard’s face, it’s enough to make her change her mind.

“If you both say so, I’ll allow it. You may fight this battle with us, Lysithea. Welcome, temporarily, to the Black Eagles.”

* * *

A noise sounds from up the stairs— a shifting of stone.

“They’re here.” Byleth keeps her voice low. “Two groups, one to the left, one to the right. Keep them from the exits. Don’t let any of them escape.”

Byleth motions Edelgard, Hubert, Caspar, Linhardt, and Ferdinand to the left, and the others, along with the professor herself and Lysithea, to the right.

Edelgard readies her axe. “There are sigils on the floor. Be wary of their effects.”

“It seems like we will be fighting together, Hubert! Good luck!” Ferdinand says in a whisper. However, Hubert looks distracted, pensive, almost angry. 

“Um. Hubert?”

Hubert glances at Ferdinand, then ignores him altogether. In fact—

“Professor,” Hubert says a few seconds later. “I’d like to request reassignment to the other team. Switch me and Lysithea, please. We share the same strategic function— it shouldn’t disrupt whatever plan you had in mind.”

Ferdinand reels as Hubert strides away from him wordlessly to join the other group. 

Why did he...? Is Hubert really so desperate to get away from him that he would switch himself out of _Edelgard’s_ team? The dark mage’s words feel like a punch to Ferdinand’s gut. Edelgard herself looks confused at Hubert’s actions for a brief second, then schools her face into its usual stoicism.

Is this… was it something Ferdinand said? Their argument during the last battle? Ferdinand thought they were past all that!

Byleth’s iron sword gleams dully in the pale yellow torchlight. “Is everyone ready?”

Ferdinand shakes himself out of his shock. He and the others nod in response.

“Alright. Go.”

* * *

The thuds and harsh clanging of nine students-turned-soldiers running into the hall is enough to alert the enemy to their presence. Due to their quick entrance, though, they have the element of surprise.

“The Central Church has discovered us! Hold them off!” A man, presumably the enemy’s leader, stands at the far end of the hall. He’s wearing an archaic mask, the same kind that the dark mage Natalie was wearing at Magdred Way in the mists last month.

“Split up!” Byleth shouts, and they do so.

Ferdinand has run into the room already. An archer stands in front of him, guarding the left side of the entrance, and Ferdinand moves to attack.

He feels his years of training take over. The lance is an extension of his arms, a part of him, just as much as his heart or mind. He runs in close to the archer, out of the enemy’s range, then sweeps his lance downward, feet planted in a wide, guarding stance. The archer jolts, his legs cut out from under him as his balance tips. Ferdinand takes the opportunity and steps in, whirling his lance up and forward to pierce the unguarded gap in armor between the archer’s shoulders and chest. The archer falls like a stone.

Around him, his classmates have advanced as well, felling the swordsman at the other side of the entrance.

“There is a coffin in the back of the hall with something in it.” Ferdinand notes. The enemy leader seems to be struggling with the heavy stone.

“What could they want with Seiros’ remains?” Linhardt’s voice and movements have dipped back into lethargy as he follows behind Ferdinand, waiting until everyone else has gone through before following.

“Beats me,” Caspar remarks with a shrug and a clank of gauntlets. “What use could anyone have for a pile of old bones?”

“Caspar, don’t be rude.” Edelgard strides forward to bait out the enemy, her pale hair now glinting almost yellow in the dull torchlight.

Meanwhile, the dark mage at the back of the hall starts drawing sigils in the air. The symbols blaze with light as they hang around the space where the coffin lies.

“Death Knight!” the dark mage calls out. “Prove your strength and scatter these fools! Hold them off until I’m finished!”

It is at this point that Ferdinand notices the imposing figure in the center of the room. The cavalier’s black armor looks to be of the highest quality, and his eyes glow from beneath a formidable mask. He holds his scythe loosely, but the strength of his posture suggests he could spring to action in less time than you’d take to blink.

The Death Knight’s horse trots forward two steps. Ferdinand freezes. He has trained with cavaliers of all skill levels for almost a decade, and he can tell how strong someone is by their stance, by the way they hold their lance and how they ride their horse. More importantly, he knows what it feels like to fight someone he has no chance of winning against, and this… this is it.

For the first time in years, Ferdinand fears for his life. This is someone he cannot beat. This is someone that maybe none of them can beat. In that instant, for just that one second, Ferdinand loses track of his drive to defeat Edelgard, of his honor, of his rank. The Death Knight is approaching them. They’re all going to die.

For just that instant, Ferdinand von Aegir considers accepting defeat. 

Then the Death Knight stops and retreats. He moves back to the spot he started at and waits, perfectly still, like an ominous statue.

“I don’t take orders,” his deep voice rumbles, a response to the enemy commander. “And I certainly don’t waste my time on weaklings.”

Waves of shame wash over Ferdinand as he pulls himself together. How could he, a refined noble, have ever considered defeat without at least giving the fight a try? His soldier friends would be so disappointed with him. His father would be so angry at him. 

“The Death Knight is a strong opponent,” Edelgard calls out, ripping Ferdinand from his thoughts. “We must avoid him at all costs. Proceed towards the objective.”

But Lysithea is staring at the dark cavalier, a challenge in her eyes.

“I bet I could take him,” Lysithea says, dark magic crackling at her fingertips. The energy of the magic flowing from her… it makes Ferdinand feel like he’s standing next to Hubert. That sends conflicting emotions shivering down his spine. Was he the only one who thought he and Hubert were becoming friends? He’s having a hard time dealing with this whiplash. Is this how Hubert treats _all_ his friends— acquaintances— enemies? Or is there something wrong with Ferdinand in particular?

Lysithea continues to stare at the cavalier as Edelgard and Caspar stride past her and past the unmoving Death Knight, further into the hall and to the left.

“I could take him,” Lysithea says again.

“Ah, the overconfidence of youth,” Linhardt says with a smirk as he catches up to her. “You’d do a significant amount of damage, but his scythe is long enough to reach you on the counterattack once you move within spell range. The only way to take him down would be to have someone else attack him first and survive, and _then_ send you in, Lysithea.”

Edelgard and Caspar, realizing that the other three have fallen behind, finish off the enemy they were facing and return in time to catch the tail end of the conversation.

“Alright!” Caspar grins, bashing his gauntlets together. “You need someone to attack that guy first? Let me at him.”

The smirk falls from Linhardt’s face and he pales.

“No... Caspar, no. You’d die.”

Caspar frowns, a bit sadly.

“Wow, you really don’t have much confidence in me, do you? I get that I’m not the _best_ at anything, Lin, but I _can_ fight.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Linhardt says, shaking his head, some frustration slipping into his tone.

Edelgard interrupts, a tinge of anger in her usually calm voice. “Did none of you hear me? We don’t need to attack the Death Knight. We can simply avoid him and press on.”

A swordsman runs down the west side of the room approaching their group, and Edelgard huffs and turns away to fight him off.

The rest of the four of them stare at the Death Knight for a quiet second. Ferdinand looks at those glowing eyes, takes a deep breath, and shoves his cowardice into a void.

“I can do it,” Ferdinand says. “I can survive one hit.”

Linhardt nods hesitantly, and Lysithea looks determined.

“If you miss, Edelgard and I will pull you back,” Linhardt says. “And if Lysithea misses, we’ll still pull you back, and Caspar will shove Lysithea out of the way, and then we’ll run away as fast as we can.”

Edelgard finishes off the enemy swordsman and returns, again.

“Listen, I don’t think it’s possible to defeat—” she begins, and that’s all it takes to fuel Ferdinand’s drive. Determination floods him. He _will_ be better than Edelgard. He spent a month learning a new lance technique to take down mounted opponents, and this is his chance to use it. Edelgard can’t do what he can.

He takes a deep breath. “I am the heir to House Aegir,” he whispers under his breath, to remind himself of all that he can accomplish, his ancestors and his nobility and the ideals he stands for. 

“I am Ferdinand von Aegir. I can take on the world.”

He dashes towards the Death Knight. The Death Knight pays almost no attention as Ferdinand rushes him— until he sees the beginnings of the move Ferdinand is about to attempt and seems to recognize it. His dark mask twitches as he flinches backwards, but there’s no longer enough time for him to react.

Ferdinand pulls his lance back, letting his momentum carry him forward, and leaps into the air. He points one knee forward, pivoting, and his lance flashes forward as he thrusts it at the Death Knight, both arms in synchrony, driving the point into the creases in dark armor just above the cavalier’s center of gravity. The Death Knight grunts in pain, nearly impaled and doubling over as he’s almost shoved off of his horse. Ferdinand rebounds to land lightly on the floor. 

He did it! He did exactly as much damage as he was supposed to; his technique was perfectly executed. Pride fills Ferdinand’s soul to the brim.

The Death Knight grunts as he slips, but he isn’t unarmed, and he isn’t unsettled. That deep voice rumbles again from behind the mask.

“I told you that if you fled I would not chase you. But it seems you wish to die...”

A wave of black, and before Ferdinand can retreat, the scythe swings down from above.

Terror replaces Ferdinand’s euphoria, followed immediately by pain as the dark blade slices deep across Ferdinand’s chest. His vision blurs and he yells as he stumbles, hands rising ineffectually to try and hold his torso together. Blood seeps from the wound in rivulets— the scythe has cut right through his armor, and the pain is really beginning to sink in now. He sinks to the floor and bites his lower lip to keep himself from screaming out again.

Though on his knees, he just barely manages to raise his head to see Lysithea standing diagonally away from him on a special tile on the floor, chanting. She glows as she floats a few inches off the ground, then speaks a final word crackling with energy. Ferdinand watches with awe as a multitude of spikes made from what seems like pure darkness coalesce around the Death Knight. They hang in the air for a split second, then, at the girl’s command, converge on the Death Knight with a rushing sound, like a deadly flock of birds, impaling him from all directions.

The Death Knight, already unbalanced from Ferdinand’s attack, slumps forward with a roar of pain at this new assault, as his horse tries to bolt. He yanks on the reins with what’s left of his strength and gazes down at the young dark mage in front of him.

“I… didn’t expect to encounter someone like you here. How… fortunate. And yet...”

The Death Knight doesn’t finish the sentence— and Ferdinand can’t bear the pain enough to hold his head up any longer, so he slumps to the floor. He isn’t sure what happens next. All he hears is the sound of clopping hooves and a loud ringing in his ears. His thoughts are beginning to go fuzzy.

His classmates’ voices cut through the ringing.

“Linhardt, stay here. Fix him up.”

Linhardt smiles. “You’re letting me stay behind and rest with no repercussions? Gladly, oh revered house leader. If only you could leave Lysithea here as well, my dreams would be fulfilled.”

“...I’m tempted to rescind that order,” Edelgard deadpans as Lysithea rolls her eyes.

“No, no,” Linhardt says, faking horror. “I take it back, let me rest. I’ll stay alert and keep an eye out for reinforcements, I promise.”

Edelgard sighs. “Great. Caspar, Lysithea— come with me.”

Caspar nods, but turns back for a second.

“Lin? You’ll be alright?”

“This again, Caspar?” Linhardt’s words devolve into a yawn. “I’m not helpless. I don’t need you around to protect me when all I’m going to be doing is sitting here.”

Caspar’s face falls. “I guess. If you say so.”

Linhardt frowns, trying to puzzle out Caspar’s reaction, but the three of them leave before he can ask anything more.

Linhardt turns to Ferdinand. His eyes close, and his hands move to hover over Ferdinand. Ferdinand coughs as glowing warmth fills him. He hears the whisper of incantations and tries to relax, letting the light suffuse him and knit his wounds. The feeling of being healed is a mix of pain and relief, as always.

Every time he’s healed like this, he can’t help but remember his mother. Elyse von Aegir had been sickly for most of Ferdinand’s life, and had died of her illness when he was still quite young. Ferdinand hadn’t known her well.

Yet Ferdinand can still recall her smile, her light blonde hair that shone brightly in Ferdinand’s sight. She had always been the one to heal Ferdinand’s injuries— though Ferdinand’s father often berated her for it, proclaiming that healing was a servant’s job. Even when the gang from town broke Ferdinand’s arm and beat him with his own splintered training lance, even when his father publicly lamented Ferdinand's lack of skill, Elyse von Aegir had never seen Ferdinand as weak. Until the day she died, she’d been there for him with a smile and a warm glow around her hands.

“Done.”

Linhardt rocks back on his heels, and Ferdinand sits up and looks around. Byleth’s group has already made it to the back of the hall, and Ferdinand can briefly see a flash of light from that direction. Seconds later, it’s over, and the rest of the group starts making their way back to the entrance. Linhardt sighs, stands up, and starts healing the others.

Ferdinand finds Hubert sitting against the stone entranceway, waiting for Edelgard to finish speaking with the Professor. A quick glance in that direction reveals a new sword the Professor is carrying— it’s structured in pieces, yellowed with age, and glows with a strange light.

“Hubert!” Ferdinand says, forcing a smile onto his face. Hubert was concerned about him in the last battle. Hubert helped him in the kitchens that night. He’s good, in his own sharp way. He’s a friend.

“It is good to see you, Hubert. Do you need a hand?”

Ferdinand offers his hand to help Hubert off the ground, and— did he just see Hubert flinch away?

“I can get up myself, thank you,” Hubert says curtly. He rises from the ground to loom over Ferdinand like a tall, thin, shadow.

Ferdinand’s heart flutters with some unnameable emotion: anger, fear, confusion; he doesn’t know.

“Hubert, have you heard that, even though Edelgard proclaimed it impossible, I defeated that Death Knight who guarded the center of the hall? I had Lysithea’s help, of course, but though I was almost killed by one sweep of his dark scythe, I secured victory in the end—”

Hubert glares down at Ferdinand with his one visible eye. 

“Fool. Why must you always risk yourself to rival Edelgard?”

Ferdinand frowns. That is not how he expected Hubert to respond.

“I am not risking myself— I am _improving_ myself, so that I may guide her when she needs—”

The dark mage’s glare sharpens to a point.

“Know your place, von Aegir. She is above you. Lady Edelgard is the Imperial Princess, while you— you are merely the Prime Minister’s son. You are a noble, just a noble, and not one of any particular worth.”

The words hurt more than they should. Ferdinand knows of Hubert’s talent for choosing the right poisoned barbs to incite hatred. And Ferdinand has never been immune— far from it. He squares his shoulders and glares daggers at this dark mage who he still, in the depths of his traitorous heart, wants to befriend. Yet he almost can’t help the words that spill from his mouth.

“You— Anything is better than being a noble like you! Every time you open your mouth it's 'Lady Edelgard this' or 'Lady Edelgard that.' Do you ever think for yourself?”

Hubert lets out a hollow laugh. “Your obsession with all things superficial is disgusting—”

Ferdinand cuts him off, unable to stop. “You follow her around like some sort of pet! You spend all of your time fretting over her, and yet you never truly express an opinion of your own! Before you reprimand me, take a moment to consider your own failings, _von Vestra_.”

“Does the river of filth pouring out of your mouth ever stop flowing?” Hubert spits out, incensed. 

He shakes his head before Ferdinand can retort. “Alas, it's no use. You're hopeless, and always will be. I'll take my leave.”

“Get lost!” Ferdinand shouts at Hubert as the dark mage stalks away. Some of his classmates look at them with mild alarm. He can see Edelgard break away from the Professor to move to Hubert’s side.

Ferdinand slumps against the wall that Hubert was just leaning on. He can no longer even attempt to sort through the emotions Hubert makes him feel. 

It scares him to admit that he’s no longer sure he wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hubert: I think I love my soulmate, but I can’t let him know, because I have evil plans™. So I’ll just be a dick to him instead.
> 
> Ferdinand: Why does everyone hate me?  
> -  
> I’m back after a long hiatus! Now that I have less work, I plan to write more of this. Here's an extra-long chapter to celebrate.
> 
> Anyways, thanks so much for reading! I’ve worked out most of the plot of this fic, and there's going to be a good number more chapters, so hang tight! I hate having to wait to get to the good stuff, but alas, such is the pain of writing a longer story.
> 
> Also, 100 subscribers! It’s not a lot, I know, but I’m honored. Please do leave a comment if you feel like it— I’m always happy to hear what I've done wrong or can improve.
> 
> Stay tuned for the next chapter, which will feature Bernadetta! And stay safe, everyone!  
> —  
> Notes:  
> Lysithea has access to Dark Spikes (a B-level Dark Magic spell), while everyone else is still around C-level, because of her personal skill Mastermind, which doubles skill growth earned through battle. Ferdinand has Knightkneeler because it's an ordinary C level lance skill.
> 
> Both Dark Spikes and Knightkneeler are effective against cavaliers like the Death Knight.
> 
> Colors-verse:  
> Lysithea/Cyril is in! I want to write more of these two. They're adorable.
> 
> In the colors-verse, Ferdinand's mom is a gentle blonde cleric, so I've named her Elyse von Aegir: after Elice from FE1/3/11/12, Lissa from FE13, and Elise from FE14. Gotta keep the archetype alive :).


	10. Compassion [Bernadetta]

Bernadetta hurries across the monastery grounds. It’s extremely early in the morning, which means no one else is around.

Which is a good thing, because, for once in her life, she doesn’t think she can stand to be in her room any longer.

It’s a tragedy, really. Last night, as usual, Bernadetta had brought her dinner to her room to eat in privacy, but she’d completely forgotten to toss out the leftovers before going to bed. When she’d woken up this morning, the smell of old fish had permeated every corner of her room, assaulting her senses.

Hence her escape. She’d made sure to leave the door to her room open when she left, so her room could air out. 

Now, Bernadetta sits at a table in the corner of the library, half-hidden behind the pillars. While she waits for her room to be inhabitable again, she works on her essay on ranged attack maneuvers. It’s due tomorrow; she might as well finish it now.

Unfortunately for her, the library doesn’t remain empty for long.

What is Petra doing here so early in the morning? Bernadetta retreats further into the shadows of the room as Petra pulls a book from the shelves and sits down at a central table. Thankfully, the swordswoman doesn’t notice Bernadetta. Silence reigns as both of them continue to work.

Then Linhardt walks in.

Bernadetta holds back a squeak. Seriously? Two whole other people? Most students aren’t even awake at this time!

Fortunately, Linhardt doesn’t seem to notice her either.

“Petra.”

The swordswoman seems startled as she looks up, but hides it quickly.

“Linhardt. You are certainly having awakened early today.”

Linhardt shakes his head tiredly. “Just the opposite— I haven’t slept yet.”

Bernadetta gapes. It’s well past dawn! How in the world is he still up?

Petra raises an eyebrow. “That is not being good for you, Linhardt. You are needing sleep. You should be going back to your room now.”

Linhardt sets the two books he’s carrying down on Petra’s table.

“I will, I promise. I’m going to skip class to sleep— I think we’re practicing with melee weapons today, and that’s really not my thing anyways.” 

He gestures matter-of-factly to the books he’s just put down. “But it _is_ _your_ thing. So here. A gift for you.”

Petra’s hesitant at first, but her eyes light up at the titles of the books. She flips through one of them eagerly.

“Where… where are you finding these? I have been asking Tomas very many times for a treatise on imported Brigid weaponry, and he is always saying— ”

“Books like this are rare, yes,” Linhardt says pointedly. “Rare enough that Garreg Mach doesn’t have them. Yet not so rare that they couldn’t be found in the libraries of the _Adrestian Minister of War_.”

The warmth of gratitude in Petra’s eyes freezes over in an instant, replaced by a layer of distant frost. Bernadetta blinks at the abrupt change. There must be something here that Bernadetta isn’t aware of.

Linhardt holds Petra’s gaze. 

“These books are a gift from Caspar. He heard you lamenting their absence, and he managed to find copies of them on his last trip home. He’s been agonizing over how to give them to you. In the end, I relented and said I’d do it.”

Bernadetta feels like an intruder, eavesdropping on this conversation. She wishes she could leave, but then they’d _definitely_ know she’s there, and that would be even _more_ awkward.

The frost in Petra’s expression seems to crackle and harden. 

“I see. I… am appreciating your efforts, Linhardt.”

“It wasn’t me,” Linhardt says, with more force than Bernadetta’s ever heard from him. “I didn’t do anything— It was all Caspar. He searched for those books for a long time. Far longer than I’d have bothered to spend on it.”

Petra doesn’t move, doesn’t shift a single bit. It’s kind of scary.

“...Then, I must —”

“Look, I know why you hate his father,” Linhardt says. “I understand, really.”

His voice takes on a stern, almost regal quality. Bernadetta can imagine this is what Count Hevring sounds like giving orders to his subordinates, and now Bernadetta feels _really, really_ bad about listening in, because this is clearly a private conversation.

“But I’m Caspar’s _soulmate_ , Petra! I can tell how much your hatred affects him. I don’t mean to trivialize your pain. Just… keep in mind that Caspar isn’t his father. And that, well— at the risk of sounding extremely callous, that was a _war_. Both sides were in combat. We— we ourselves have killed others, and I _despise_ that fact, but we can’t pretend— ”

“I am not having hatred for Caspar!” Petra says sharply, cutting Linhardt off mid-speech. Linhardt stills. Petra lets out a slow breath, composing herself. 

“I am already knowing everything you say, and I am not hating him. I promise.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Petra says quietly, “I... do not want to be talking about it any more.”

Linhardt slumps over a bit, and all that sternness and composure vanishes in a second.

“Right. Just… give him a chance. Caspar hoped you’d enjoy the books. He honestly wanted to give you something you’d appreciate.”

Petra lets a small smile grace her countenance, and Bernadetta thinks to herself that it looks more real than all the polite masks the young swordswoman wears on a daily basis.

“Please be giving Caspar my thanks, then. I will be liking these books greatly. And you are still having my thanks as well, Linhardt.”

“Sure. Great.” Linhardt slaps the table to push himself up and spins around to the door.

“Well, I’m off to sleep. See you, Petra.”

Then he looks into the dark corner of the library, directly where Bernadetta is sitting, and smiles.

“See you, Bernadetta.”

And, leaving Bernadetta gasping at the thought that he’d known she was there _the whole time_ , he exits the library.

* * *

Bernadetta had thought Petra would be angry at the fact that she’d inadvertently eavesdropped, but the swordswoman simply accepts that Bernadetta was there, extends her own greetings, then goes back to work.

Bernadetta looks down at her own essay on ranged attack maneuvers and finds that she just can’t concentrate on it, not when such an emotionally charged scene had played out right in front of her. In fact, a scene like that… it would be _perfect_ for her novel, wouldn’t it?

Yes, she could easily fit that into the plotline! If she has her novel’s heroine confront the antagonist slightly earlier… she reaches into her knapsack to pull out her manuscript, ideas whizzing across her mind.

Except her manuscript isn’t there.

 _What?_ Where could it have— where did she leave it? Did someone steal it? Has… has someone _read it?_ No! Anything but that! Only one other person has ever tried to read her novel, and they’d only gotten through a page or two over her shoulder before she noticed and slammed it shut. That hadn’t stopped him from trying again, unfortunately. She still has no idea why Sylvain is so interested in trying to read her work.

Bernadetta packs everything and nearly sprints out of the library. Maybe her manuscript is still in her own room. Yes, of course! She probably just forgot to take it with her when she left today. It’s definitely in her room, and she’s freaking out for no reason, and—

It’s not in her room.

Bernadetta shrieks and tears back through the monastery, retracing her steps, eyes darting left and right as she scans her surroundings for a small lilac notebook.

She’d chosen that color for a reason. The pale purple is easy enough to see for her or anyone else that has access to the full spectrum, but it blends in with the shadows when you can’t see its hue. She’d worked that out using the shades, hues, and statistics depicted in her copy of the widely-known educational Book of Colors. And since purple eyes were somewhat uncommon, the shade of purple would be hidden to more people than would any other color.

Besides, that pale purple matched the shade of her old friend’s hair and eyes. The gardener’s apprentice, the boy that she’d sat on a bridge with once, long ago, eating peach currants as they watched the horizon fade to black. The one who’d snuck her a copy of the Book of Colors when she’d expressed fear over her ability to see all colors without yet meeting her soulmate. The one her father had beaten senseless, and for what? For the crime of being her friend?

She’d known from then on not to get too close to anyone.

She’s so busy looking around her that she isn’t looking straight ahead, and she runs directly into another student. Bernadetta sees a glimpse of red hair and as she stumbles.

“Bernadetta!”

“AAAAAH I’M SORRY I DIDN’T MEAN TO— oh. Sylvain?”

Sylvain waves jauntily. “It’s me again!” He reaches into his pack.

Bernadetta scrambles away from the taller student. “Uhhhh listen, I can’t talk right now, I’m sorry, I’m looking for something! Something very important, so I— I’ll be off, then, please don’t hurt me, goodbye!”

She turns to run but Sylvain grabs her shoulder.

“Bernadetta, wait! If you’re looking for your manuscript, I have it right here.”

Sylvain rummages in his bag as he speaks. “Remember how I read some of it over your shoulder and asked you about it, and you refused to share? Well, I mean, you screamed and ran, but that’s basically… anyways, I remembered that your notebook’s cover was lilac, so when I saw this book on the ground, I knew it had to be yours.”

Bernadetta turns around in slow motion. She’s sure an expression of abject horror is plastered upon her face, because if _Sylvain_ found her manuscript…

“And I just finished reading it!” Sylvain says with a smile.

Bernadetta freezes. Her heart turns to ice in her chest and shatters like fine glass, shards falling to puncture the barren ruins of her soul. Embarrassment, fear, shame, even a pinch of anger— all of them swirl inside her, a tempest of winds across the crumbled buildings of hope and creativity that reside within her. She can’t speak, can’t think, can’t breathe, and everything’s going fuzzy…

A gasp of air. 

When Bernadetta regains consciousness, she finds herself sitting in the secluded garden pavilion. It’s only a few feet from where she was standing when she ran into Sylvain, and it feels like it’s only been a minute or so, but the fact that she can’t remember moving here is disturbing. She feels disoriented, and shakes her head to bring herself back to attention.

Then she remembers to take another gasp of air. Right. Breathing is important.

Sylvain sits next to her on the bench where he’d propped her up. His face is close to hers, staring into her vacant gaze. He looks pretty worried.

“Hey. Bernadetta? You okay?”

She doesn’t quite respond, just mumbles a bit. Her thoughts are starting to return slowly.

Sylvain cracks a smile. 

“I hope you recover quickly. Because otherwise, my current girlfriend might hear rumors that I dragged you back here. Hope she doesn’t think I’m cheating on her.”

The phrase ‘current girlfriend,’ along with its implications that Sylvain will just pick a new one when he’s done, irks Bernadetta. Here she is, without a soulmate, unable to be interested in the one thing that seems to make this society turn, while this guy openly flaunts his multiple relationships, even though Bernadetta knows full well he can already see all colors.

Bernadetta snaps back to attention and jumps up from her seat.

“Uhhh. Well, I’ve recovered! I’m fine! Time to go! Bye!” She tries to grab her purple notebook from where Sylvain set it out on the table, but Sylvain holds it down so she can’t leave.

“Wait, please,” Sylvain says. His voice is quiet and decidedly non-threatening. He’s looking straight at her. “Before you go, I just… want to ask you a question.”

Bernadetta stills. Again. Is he trying to hit on her? Even though he just mentioned his girlfriend?

Sylvain continues. “I just finished reading your story— wait, no don’t freak out, please! It was really good! The heroine’s exploits were masterfully detailed; I found myself laughing and crying along, always at the edge of my seat wondering how she was going to get out of the next mess she’d gotten herself into! Honestly, you should be proud of your writing.”

“W— what’s your point?” Bernadetta asks, shaking. This feels like an intrusion of her privacy, but also somehow… liberating. Someone liked her story. It’s a panic-tinged warmth she feels.

Sylvain glances back at the book. 

“They say people generally write what they know. And your protagonist is certainly like you in terms of personality, sometimes. But what really struck me is how she remarks often that she’s never had a soulmate, and that she’s always been able to see every color.”

Bernadetta doesn’t panic. She focuses on that— not panicking.

“Is it true?” Sylvain asks, and there’s an odd emotion on his face that accentuates the quiet assuredness of his voice.

“You can see all colors, can’t you? Do you not have a soulmate?”

And Bernadetta is too busy trying not to panic to consider lying.

She nods.

Sylvain’s expression shutters, and he says something Bernadetta would never have expected.

“Wow. You may not believe this, but I’m extremely jealous.”

Bernadetta’s shocked out of her panic.

“What?” she exclaims. “But… you’ve gained your colors too! And— and you’re certainly not like _me,_ or else you wouldn’t have said you were jealous. Doesn’t that mean you’ve already found your soulmate?”

 _How could you possibly be jealous of_ not _having one? How could anyone be jealous of_ me _?_

Sylvain lets his head tip forward.

“Yes. I know who my soulmate is,” he says, extremely quietly.

Bernadetta can’t help a spark of anger. “Then why do you mess around with so many other— Why aren’t you going out with _them_?”

“Because I can’t,” Sylvain says, and his head sinks even lower. He glances sideways at Bernadetta.

“You... You’re really not interested in... all this? In, you know, dating and soulmates and all that.”

“Yes. I’m not. B— but,” Bernadetta recalls all the insults flung at her, her father forbidding her friendship with commoners, tying her to a chair to practice manners so she’d be married off to a high-ranking young man, when she’d always hated the concept of tying herself to someone else. She thinks of how, no matter what everyone says, no matter how many times she’s _tried_ to want it, she’s never been able to want a soulmate. All she’s ever wanted is friends.

She can feel the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Don’t you think it’s weird? It’s shameful? I’m— I’m so pathetic, I don’t even have someone out there for me! Nobles are expected to marry well and carry on their bloodlines, and I… I… I don’t want to marry _anyone!_ I’m scared of it!”

She doesn’t know why she’s doing this; why she’s telling him everything, but the panic is swirling in her and forcing the words out. She can’t help but shudder as she speaks.

“D— Don’t you think I’m disgusting?”

Sylvain’s eyes flash, and he reaches over to put his hands on Bernadetta’s shoulders. 

“No! Not at all! You shouldn’t need to marry just to pass on your inherited crest!” He looks away, incensed, but… not at her.

“That’s _exactly_ what I’ve always despised about nobility! The fact that your family has convinced you that it’s— that it’s _necessary_ to give up your happiness so you can marry well— it makes me sick! You don’t need their validation to be happy, Bernadetta!”

Bernadetta reaches up and, for the first time in years, initiates physical contact. She touches Sylvain’s hand on her shoulders.

It’s just like what happened when she took Linhardt’s hand a few years ago— just like what happened when Caspar grabbed her hand to thank her during the battle at Magdred Way. It’s like a mist clears from her vision around a certain hue, and suddenly, the color hazel brown, the color of Sylvain’s eyes, is brighter in her sight. The wooden benches, the dry soil— everything of that shade sharpens. A fog she’d never noticed before has dissipated from around the shade of hazel brown, leaving the world a clearer place.

Sylvain lets his hands fall back to his lap. There’d been no change for him, Bernadetta knows, but now his words take on a new meaning. Maybe he’s right. Maybe she doesn’t need to follow everyone else’s rules. Maybe there are people out there who love her, not in the way of romance, but as a friend. 

Maybe… she’s not broken, just different?

Sylvain remains unaware of her revelations. “Can I tell you something, Bernadetta?” 

She nods. He helped her. Just like Linhardt did. He’s her friend. She’s willing to listen.

“There are only two people I could ever love,” Sylvain admits. “One has another soulmate, and I’m happy for him. He’s my best friend. He’s a bit rough, but I hope he finds his soulmate someday.

“And the other is _my_ soulmate. I’ve known she’s my soulmate for years— touched her one day when we were messing around at Fraldarius Manor. I’ve been able to see every color since.”

Sylvain clasps his hands together on the table and squeezes. 

“But here’s the kicker: she _already had_ a soulmate, and _it wasn’t me._ She and another man were each others’ soulmates. They formed a matching pair. Or at least, they used to.”

“What happened?” Bernadetta asks, curious despite herself. “Did they start hating each other or something?”

Sylvain shakes his head. “Much worse. My soulmate’s partner died. She lost her colors, and all she’s been able to see since is gray. And here I am, with full color vision, glorious and splendid, only for her to never love me back. It drives me crazy. Every time I see that sorrow on her face, I wish...”

Bernadetta doesn’t understand, but she sympathizes.

“Sylvain. I’m so sorry. I…” Then one part of the story strikes her. 

“Hey, wait! Does she even _know_ that she’s your soulmate? Does she know you love her?”

Sylvain shakes his head sadly. “I couldn’t bring myself to say it to her face.”

“Well then, how in the world is she supposed to love you back?”

Sylvain frowns, and Bernadetta flinches and cowers back beneath his gaze.

“You don’t understand,’ he says sadly. “I don’t want her to waste her life trying to accommodate my selfish desires. I can’t tarnish her partner’s memory like that! Glenn was a good friend, and I will _not_ —“

Bernadetta thinks of her novel. She thinks of all the misunderstandings she’s been writing into the plot that make it a tragic tale. She draws on her protagonist’s hidden confidence; draws on her hesitant newfound realization that she could be useful for something, and she speaks.

“You’re the one who doesn’t understand, Sylvain! How do you think her partner would feel, seeing both of you avoiding each other over something like this? He’d want you to move on! He’d want you both to be happy!”

Sylvain doesn’t get angrier, just colder. “You know _nothing_ about Glenn, or me, or—“

Bernadetta screws her eyes shut and shouts, “And what about her? Don’t you want her to be happy? What gives you the right to hold her back from a happy life with you!?”

Sylvain slumps backward, speechless.

“I… that’s not true. She _wouldn’t_ have a happy life with me. She loved _Glenn_. She could never love me.”

“How can you know that for sure unless you _tell_ her?”

Sylvain inhales and shakes his head sharply.

“No. I hadn’t thought of it like that, but… No. My resolve is slipping, and I can’t allow that. You… made some good points, Bernadetta, but I can’t do that to her. I’m… content. With what I have now. It’s enough.”

He stands up from the bench.

“Thanks for the conversation, Bernadetta. And thanks for letting me read your book. You should write more. See you.”

Bernadetta considers telling him that she certainly did not _allow_ him to read her book, but her confidence is ebbing away. Besides, she might possibly be okay with the fact that he read it? 

Sylvain strides off, and Bernadetta leaves to find a quiet place to hide.

* * *

She ends up at the hillside with the gorgeous view that Caspar showed her last month. She sets out her easel, canvas, and brushes, then starts to dab at the landscape she’s depicting. The peaceful quiet is just what she needs...

“You were right last time. I think it needs a little more crimson.”

Bernadetta shrieks as a patch of dark green on the ground nearby reveals itself to be Linhardt bundled up in a sleeping bag. His head pokes out from the top, hair askew.

“AAAH!! Where did _you_ come from?!”

“I’ve been here the whole time, hiding from Professor Byleth. But don’t mind me— keep painting. Like I said, you have potential.”

Bernadetta huffs in annoyance as Linhardt shuts his eyes and lies back down. Like this, it’s easier to see that Linhardt has dark circles under his eyes, and is even paler than usual. She wonders why.

There’s silence for a few minutes.

“Did Caspar show you this place?” Linhardt asks. He sounds… out of it, sort of quiet and tired.

Bernadetta nods.

“I see. I’m glad. It’s peaceful here, and I think we could both use that.”

Bernadetta nods again.

Linhardt sits up again. He’s hunched over, his sleeping bag drawn around him.

“Caspar’s too kind for his own good,” Linhardt mumbles. “He spends far too much effort trying to fight injustice and help people and train himself to be stronger. I’m so proud of him for it. But I’m... somehow, I'm always the one who’s holding him back.”

Bernadetta doesn’t know what to say to that. In a way, it’s true— Caspar constantly hangs back in battle to make sure Linhardt’s alright, and misses part of his classes to find Linhardt and drag him to attend. She’s pretty sure, from what Caspar said to her two months ago when she helped Linhardt through his panic, that Caspar doesn’t mind. But it’s not her place to tell Linhardt that.

“Hey! Linhardt!” says an exuberant voice from over the hill, and two figures make their way toward Bernadetta and Linhardt.

“Speak of the devil,” Linhardt comments wryly as the figures resolve themselves into Caspar, and Petra accompanying him.

“Linhardt! The Professor’s calling you!” Caspar runs up to Linhardt. “We needed someone on hand to heal us during melee weapons practice, and the Professor said this'd be a great time for you to practice your long-distance faith spells.”

Linhardt lets out a long-suffering sigh as he pulls his head further into his sleeping bag. 

His voice is muffled as he asks, seemingly to the empty air, “Why me?”

“'Cause I made a deal with the Professor!” Caspar says brightly. “If you show up to this practice, she’ll give you attendance credit for both the reason and faith practices you missed this month.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” Linhardt sighs. He doesn’t notice Caspar’s expression shutter, too focused on bundling himself even further in his sleeping bag cocoon.

Caspar, with a hint of exasperation, drops to his knees, grabs Linhardt’s shoulders and the fabric, and starts trying to pull him out of the sleeping bag. Linhardt whines and resists.

Meanwhile, Petra wanders over to Bernadetta’s painting.

“That is looking nice, Bernadetta. The paints are being in colors?”

Bernadetta tilts her head, confused, then realizes what she’s asking.

“Oh! Yes, I’m painting in color, not in grayscale.”

Petra looks delighted.

“So you _can_ see colors then? Are you having a soulmate?”

Bernadetta can’t help but notice the wording of that question. Petra hadn’t assumed that everyone has a soulmate— she’d asked if Bernadetta has one. And hey— she’d already spilled her secret to someone today, and Caspar and Linhardt already know. Might as well tell Petra too.

“I don’t have a soulmate, no,” Bernadetta says with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m weird and strange and—”

“You are not!” Petra’s smiling kindly as she says it. 

“It is being quite common in Brigid, you know, for us to be not having a soulmate. Many of my cousins are not having soulmates, and they are thinking that _I_ am the weird one. You are not weird, Bernadetta!”

Bernadetta is stunned. It’s… common, somewhere out there, to be like her? She’s reaching the limit of revelations she can have in one day, honestly. This is all too much. She can feel tears starting to form, and her throat clenches up and burns with the weight of all of her sorrow and fear and relief and _emotion_. She holds back a sob.

“Really?” Bernadetta says, scrubbing at her eyes, and Petra makes a noise of sympathy and takes her hand, pressing it between both of her own.

Through her tears, Bernadetta watches everything between purple and mauve in the world flash brighter, the violets on the hill and pale distant mountains on the horizon sharpening to vibrant shades past the shifting blur of liquid spilling over her eyes to drip down her cheeks. She can’t hold back another sob, then another, and now she’s hunched over shaking and her paintbrush has fallen from her limp hand to the soft grass and Petra’s holding her up because she can’t stand anymore.

Caspar and Linhardt seem to have noticed, at some point, the state she’s in. She can’t even bring herself to panic at this fact because she knows Linhardt’s seen her in worse condition and Caspar’s heard about it.

“Do you want space?” Linhardt asks carefully, and Bernadetta shakes her head.

Bernadetta relaxes into Petra’s hold, and she selfishly, shamefully allows herself to take comfort from it, and from the fact that Caspar slings an arm over her shoulders and Linhardt rubs gentle circles on her back. The warmth and kindness just make her more susceptible to the barrage of emotions threatening to swallow her self-control, but it feels so good to let it out without being judged. She’s crying outright now, and they’re not leaving her to suffer alone.

Is this what it means to have friends?

She doesn't think she can bear this much emotion. Not for long. Yet, somehow, it's also everything she's ever needed.

Once Bernadetta is calmer and her sobs have died down, Petra speaks. 

“When I am being allowed to go back to Brigid, I will be inviting you to come with me. The forests there are having much beauty. And I am being sure— I am sure my cousins will be loving to meet with you.”

Bernadetta smiles. 

“I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extremely long chapter this time as an apology for the wait!
> 
> Bernadetta needs a hug, so she gets three hugs.
> 
> I ship Sylvain and Ingrid too hard to change the pairing, sorry :). I enjoy writing about them, and I hope you'll enjoy some of the scenes as well, even if this isn't your favorite pairing for the character.
> 
> I'll probably continue to make more controversial pairing decisions as I write this-- as is usual for any fic, especially in the Fire Emblem fandoms. The usual warnings apply: Comments about ships are always appreciated, (even if you're against my choice)! Insulting anyone else for their choice of pairings is not appreciated. Thanks for complying.
> 
> Lastly, if you're dead set against any pairing outside of the main 9 characters, don't worry-- as mentioned earlier, the Black Eagles will be the focus of this fic.
> 
> Game Notes:
> 
> Sylvain is canonically a fan of Bernadetta's unpublished novel. The invitation to Brigid is a reference to Petra's shared paralogue, in which she does in fact travel to Brigid with Bernadetta.
> 
> Colors-verse:
> 
> Lots of stuff I can reveal after this chapter! These notes are all entirely optional, by the way. Everything you actually need to know should be covered in the story.
> 
> Bernadetta’s asexual in this AU, so she’s always been able to see every color, and she doesn’t have a soulmate. She does, however, form bonds with her friends that allow her to see colors more clearly. She’s already got Linhardt’s bond from her intended engagement in the prequels, and she got Caspar’s bond when he thanked her for helping Linhardt a few chapters ago. She collected Sylvain’s and Petra’s in this chapter.
> 
> Meanwhile, I finally get to give the explanation I’ve been leading up to ever since Catherine told us she wasn’t Shamir’s soulmate:
> 
> Sylvain is currently in a one-way pairing. His soulmate is Ingrid, but Ingrid’s soulmate was Glenn, not Sylvain. Ingrid and Glenn matched, and loved each other, but then Glenn kicked the bucket.
> 
> Same thing for Catherine/Shamir— Catherine’s soulmate is Shamir, but Shamir’s soulmate was a Dagdan man who died in the war against the Adrestian empire.
> 
> I actually originally came up with the one-way pairing concept for Flayn and Seteth. Those two, especially Seteth, don’t deserve to spend the rest of their lives seeing only gray. So, sometime in the future, someone else will be born who matches with one of them, and Flayn and Seteth will be able to see one color again, and then all colors when they touch their new soulmate. 
> 
> So don’t worry! The Colors-verse is still going to support Sylvain/Ingrid and Catherine/Shamir. Things will just work a bit differently for them.
> 
> (In fact, Flayn knows all about developing new soulmate bonds, and could easily clear Sylvain’s confusion. Too bad I’m writing the Black Eagles route so they’re not in the same class! :P)
> 
> Tl;dr: It’s really rare and most people don’t know about it, but it’s possible to develop a new soulmate bond after your soulmate dies.


End file.
